


One-Two Combo

by lumbeam



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Anxiety, Banter, Boxing & Fisticuffs, Drag Queens, Fights, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Gay Bar, Gay Panic, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jazz Age, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Masturbation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Speakeasies, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumbeam/pseuds/lumbeam
Summary: “How Colm explained it to me was…” Charles thought for a moment to collect his thoughts. “We need to train together to learn each other’s moves. To be so perfectly matched that the entire match will be to predict the other’s routine.”“Huh. That sounds kinda boring.”“Not if we go the distance. Give people their money’s worth.” Charles said. “What would be boring is a KO in the first round, even if I were the one doing it.”OR: the Charthur 1920s boxing AU
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith
Comments: 49
Kudos: 133





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> y'all i really thought i wouldn't do an AU. i really THOUGHT--
> 
> anyway this is an AU @geraltismydad and i have been losing our MINDS over for the past week and i needed to write it all down. 
> 
> and don't worry, i'm still working on "the journey itself is home!" :) 
> 
> in the meantime, ENJOY

Arthur slapped a dollar bill on the bar. “Evening, Floyd.” He greeted the bartender.

“Ah, it’s been a while since I’ve seen you. The usual?”

“You know me so well!” He said with the fondness of a regular.

“Are you here tonight for celebration?” The man sitting at the bar asked, feeling strange for raising his voice over the bustling customers.

“Sure am. For the first time in quite a while.” Arthur held out his hand to the man. “Arthur,” He greeted.

“Charles,” the other man grabbed his hand. His grip was tight. He matched it.

“Quite a shake you got there,” Arthur laughed. “Real strong.”

“Thanks.” It was clear Arthur didn’t know who he was. Or maybe he was too sloshed already to notice.

Floyd passed the mixed drink back over to him.

“Enjoy your evening, Charles.” He raised his glass to him.

“You as well.” He nodded.

Arthur disappeared back into the crowd.

“Does he come here often?” Charles asked.

“Only when there’s something to celebrate. If he wanted to drown his sorrows, he’d go to some run-down joint.”

“Mm. Too high profile here?”

Floyd shrugged. “Most of the heavyweights come here. People talk.”

“I see.” Charles got out his money clip, pulling out a dollar. “If he comes up here again, consider his next drink paid for.”

“Aye aye.”

Charles pulled on his wool coat and grabbed his hat off the table. He left his barely-touched drink at the bar.

  
\--

“You sure took your sweet time up there.” Dutch said, cutting the end of his cigar. Cuban, really fancy. He bought it with Arthur’s winnings earlier.

“I was just makin’ friendly conversation is all.” Arthur slid back into the leather seats. “Why’re you sour all of a sudden?”

Dutch lit up his cigar, puffing out the smoke. “I saw _Molly_.” He dropped his match in the empty glass.

“Shit, I’m sorry Dutch.”

“She had a gentleman on her arm. Some old money son-of-a-bitch.”

“You gotta get over her, Dutch. It’s been _months_.”

“Like you’re over Mary? How many times have I had to scrape you up off the pavement after drinking yourself into a stupor?”

Arthur’s blood ran cold. “That’s different.”

“Right, different in that it’s been a decade.”

Arthur gulped down his drink. “Oh, look at that, I need a refill already.”

“It’s your last one for the night, Arthur!”

Arthur grumbled as he went back up to the bar. “Last one, sure.” He looked to see the spot Charles was in was gone. He was almost crestfallen. “’Nother one, Floyd.” He pulled out a dollar from his waistcoat.

Floyd held up his hand. “This one’s been paid for, sir.”

“Oh yeah? By who?” He looked around the bar to find anyone who would buy him a drink. 

“The gentleman that you talked to earlier.”

“Well, that’s real nice of him. I wish I coulda said thank you to him.”

“He left pretty quickly after that.”

“I see.” Arthur smiled despite himself. Free drinks sure taste better. He took the drink. “Close out my tab for me, would ya? Coach says this is my last of the night.”

“And you’re listening to him for once?” Floyd laughed. “You really do want to win more matches, don’t you?”

“Sure do. ‘Night, Floyd.”

“Night, Arthur.”

Sipping at his drink, he found his way back to Dutch. At least now he’d be drunk enough to deal with Dutch’s rotten attitude.

\--

Charles rode the subway down to the other side of the city. People dwindled with each stop, until it was just him and another family in the car. It was starting to snow and he still had a few blocks to walk. Great.

He walked out of the station, bracing himself on the icy steps. The last thing he’d need right now is to break a leg and have him risk being laid up for months. A fleeting thought passed his mind that if he did get injured, maybe he could get out of his contract.

Then the more rational side of him jumped in. He’d be out of his contract and out on the streets again. Charles maintained his grip on the handrail with a sigh.

He walked back home, the empty streets piled with snow and trash. A familiar scene.

On top of this familiar scene was a familiar face outside his house. Charles swore quietly at the sight of his boss.

“Where were you?” Colm growled, stubbing his cigarette in the snow.

“I just went out for a bite to eat.” Charles said.

“Didn’t I tell you to come back by ten?”

Charles checked his watch. It was well past eleven. “I lost track of time.” 

Colm grit his teeth. “Be at the gym at four tomorrow.”

Charles balled his hands into fists in his coat pockets. “I’ll be there.”

“You’re goddamn right you’ll be there.” Colm left without another word, going to turn the corner to his apartment. 

Charles grumbled as he fumbled with his keys. Tomorrow was going to be rough.

— 

Charles’ alarm went off at 3:30am, after a whopping three hours of sleep. Half asleep, his hand scrambled for the clock. The ringing was hurting his ears, feeling like a jackhammer was going through his eardrum. And he wasn’t even hungover.

He all but stumbled out of bed, feeling around in his cold apartment for his dresser. Second drawer, mind the squeaking of the hinges since the walls are so damn thin. He grabbed the first pair of shorts and shirt he could find. He pulled on his cable knit sweater, then slung on his wool coat. Before he left, he grabbed an apple off of the picked over fruit basket. He quickly learned that early (or in this case early early) morning training paired with a big breakfast was bad for him. “Get used to a Spartan meal,” Colm groused as Charles threw up into the gym’s trash can.

The time was now 3:38am, giving him twenty minutes to get to the gym. It was a few blocks away, and on top of the snow he had to hustle. As much as he hated the cold and the snow, he enjoyed this time in the city. It was quiet, for once. It almost felt like it was all his. He walked quickly, keeping an eye on his watch.

When Colm first became his manager, he supplied him with two things. One was a watch. “So you won’t be late.” And the other was a telephone. “So I can call you to get your ass to the gym.” Charles never needed a telephone, honestly never had to use one until moving into the apartment. It was kind of novel, but he didn’t know anyone else’s numbers. It has mostly collected dust since Colm started putting him through two-a-days.

Even with the snow, he got to the gym with a couple minutes to spare. Colm was already there, resting against the ring with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. “Surprised you made it here on time.”

On the third day of training, he was a few minutes late. Colm’s always held that over him. Charles said nothing as he took off his coat and sweater. The heating in the gym was faulty at best, but he knew he’d be warm enough in due time.

“Run laps. We’re working on your speed today.” He fished his stopwatch out of his coat pocket. “Gonna see if you can get under sixty for your 400 meters.”

Charles walked over to the track that circled around the perimeter of the gym. It was actually only 200 meters.

 _Two laps. That’s it._ He put his foot at the starting line.

“Ready…go!”

Charles took off as fast as his sleep-addled body could take him. He focused on lengthening his strides, pumping his arms, focusing on visualizing the time. Colm announced when thirty seconds had passed. He was right around a minute when he completed his second lap.

Colm made a tsk sound as he checked the stopwatch. “1:05. I’m gonna give you a couple minutes to catch your breath.”

Charles wiped the sweat forming at the top of his brow. He pulled his hair back away from his face. “400 meters again?”

Colm nodded. “Can’t move on until you get under a minute.”

Charles clenched his jaw. This was going to be one of those practices.

“Get ready, go back over to the track.”

Breathing deeply, he walked over to the starting line. He stretched his legs, twisting his torso. He heard a few cracks in his spine. Then he got ready.

“ _Go_ !”   
  


\--  
  


Arthur woke to the sound of Dutch knocking on his door. Bleary-eyed, he checked the clock. 9 am. 

“Arthur, open the door.” He said, the knocks quickly becoming louder. “Don’t make me use my key.”

“All right, m’up,” he grumbled, his head feeling like it was in a vise. He pulled on tank top, making himself slightly decent. He unlocked the door, but kept the chain lock on. “What is it?”

“Get dressed. Gotta work the alcohol out of your system.”

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. All he wanted to do was curl back up into bed. “Give me a couple minutes.”

“You need to let me in when I ask you.” Dutch called out. “I feel like some kind of cop, or, or unruly neighbor standing out here like this.” 

“I’ll only be a minute.” Arthur grabbed a pair of semi-clean shorts and a shirt from off the floor. “Ain’t you the one always telling me about patience anyway?”

“That’s different. Are ya almost done?”

Arthur stepped out, looking tired and half-dressed. “Ready.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Dutch handed him a coffee. “Here, since I’m sure your brain feels like a pulp.”

Arthur took it in kind. “Thanks.”

“I figured we could work on your upper body today.” Dutch asked it like a question but meant it like a command. “Figure you wouldn’t be too good with cardio.”

“Not unless you wanna mop up my puke.”

“Certainly not.” Dutch clicked the down arrow on the elevator. “How was your night?”

“You were there, weren’t you?”

“Not when I dropped you off. Did you sleep through the night?”

The elevator doors opened. “I didn’t wake up in a pile of my own puke, if that’s what you mean.”

“And you didn’t call Mary?”

Arthur scoffed. “Dutch, that was once four years ago!”

He smirked. “Just thought I’d ask.”

Their gym was a few train stops away, closer to all the speakeasies. Dutch insisted on going to a better athletic club than the one in their neighborhood. “You only go to shitty gyms to make a few extra bucks fighting in the backroom.” Dutch said once, probably speaking from experience. Arthur never had to do that, coasting off his father’s name to get himself in legitimate matches. Dutch spent his career doing bare knuckle boxing, which often ended in broken noses and scars. Dutch grew his mustache shortly after he retired (and became Arthur’s manager, which was around the same time), if only to cover up the scar on his top lip.

The gym was bustling with people, some other boxers as well. People that Arthur hadn’t competed with due to his weight. It was strictly training only.

“Go get warmed up, then hit the weights. You’ve already wasted enough time this morning.”

Arthur threw out his cup of half-finished coffee. “Weights it is.”

\--

Charles was about to collapse.

He wasn’t sure how many laps he ran. All he knew was that he was still over a minute on his 400 meters. He gasped for air, wiping his face on his shirt. “Coach,” he started, breathing hard. “I can’t do any more.”

“Not even one more lap?” 

Charles shook his head, stray drops of sweat dripping off the ends of his loose strands of hair. “I’m sorry.”

Colm twisted his face up, then put away his stopwatch. “Take a seat over there.”

Charles staggered over to one of the metal seats. His skin felt cold. Not a good sign.

Colm tossed him his water bottle. Charles fumbled to catch it.

“Listen, I know I’ve been working you real hard.”

 _You sure have_ , Charles thought as he gulped down his water. 

“And I’ve been a real mean bastard, I know that.”

 _You_ really _have_.

“I have something up the pipeline, something I’m gonna talk to management about. Something that could put you in the big leagues, out of shitty bars and clubs. Something that could sell out an arena.”

Charles didn’t bother correcting him with the baseball metaphor mix-up.

“But you’ve got to prove to me you’re in this. No more sneaking around.”

“I wasn’t sneaking—”

“Can you promise me you’re in it?”

Charles huffed out a sigh. “I can.”

“Good,” Colm patted him roughly on the shoulder. “No training later tonight. Get some rest.”

“Okay, coach.” He got up slowly, soreness settling into his legs.

“I know you can do it, Charles. Whether or not you can get under sixty seconds for your sprints.”

Charles smiled slightly. Then gathered his things.

“Tomorrow at six in the morning, not a minute later. You got that?”

“I do.” Before exiting, he turned and said, “Thank you.”

“No, thank _you_ .”

\--

“I told you, you need to cut down on your drinking.” Dutch said over Arthur’s coughing. Hitting the weights didn’t seem to be in the cards today. Arthur was barely lifting what he could lift on a light day. 

“You always say that.”

“And I always mean it.” He crouched beside the bench.

“Listen, I’ll promise I’ll cut down.” Arthur sighed. “Could I go home, try later today?”

“No. You’re here now. Do what you can.”

“Van Der Linde!” A voice called out.

Dutch turned around to see two men right near the gym’s entrance. “ _Shit_ , management.” He muttered. “Keep on lifting, I need to talk to them.” 

Arthur watched him hustled off. “Gentlemen!” He greeted, “To whom I owe the pleasure?”

The two men in fancy suits looked over at Arthur. He hoped he was a safe enough distance away so they couldn’t see how hungover he was. They spoke quietly. Arthur wasn’t good at reading lips.

He went back to benching, acting like he wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.

Dutch came back, smiling like a mustachioed Cheshire Cat. “When you’re done with that set, you should go home and rest up.” 

Arthur acted like it was the last rep of the set despite only doing three. “You’re in a good mood.”

“Yes, son, a very good mood indeed.” He was practically wringing his hands.

“You gonna share the news with me?”

“Not yet. It’s all still in the abstract.” He went to gather Arthur’s things. “But you need to go home and rest. Tomorrow, nine am.”

Arthur warily took his coat.

“It’ll all fall into place, Arthur. Just wait.”

He gave Dutch a strange look. What was his angle? “All right, well I’m gonna go home and sleep for twelve hours.”

“Make sure to hydrate! Don’t want a repeat of today!”

“Sure.” Arthur grumbled, buttoning up his patchy coat.

\--

A couple weeks later, Dutch presented a flyer to Arthur in-between his benching sets. “Take a look at this.”

Arthur wiped his brow with his sweatshirt. He squinted at the paper. “Oh shit, I know this guy.” The picture was of Charles, hands wrapped and shirtless. Looking straight down the barrel of the camera, gaze going right through Arthur’s soul.

“That wasn’t what I was focusing on.” He impatiently tapped at the top of the page.

“’The _illustrious_ Colm O’Driscoll returns with a new _savage_ talent!’” Arthur read, wrinkling his nose at the entire sentence. He passed the flyer back to Dutch. “Which slum did Colm crawl out from to get back into the ring?”

Dutch scoffed. “More like which _prison_. I’m sure he paid off some pretty powerful people to look over his transgressions.”

Arthur went back to benching. “Spot me?”

Dutch moved to stand behind the bench, putting the flyer in his pocket. “You’re probably wondering why I showed that.”

“Figured you’d tell me.” Arthur braced himself, lifting the bar off of the rack.

“And you figured right.” Dutch looked down at Arthur on the bench. “Make sure it touches your sternum, now.”

Arthur nodded slightly.

“You’re going to fight Colm’s new man.” 

“Charles,” Arthur exhaled. 

“Right, or _Lone Wolf_ , which is his nickname in the ring. “I’m sure Colm thought of it.”

“Prolly did.” Arthur struggled with the last rep. “Dutch—”

“C’mon, push through it.” He had his hands hover over the bar. “You can do it.”

“I _can’t—_ ” He struggled. 

Dutch sighed and helped him bring the bar back up. “So close.” 

“I’ll try an’ get it next rep.” 

“No more reps. Hit the track. You gotta work on your footwork.”

Arthur caught his breath. “Okay.” He got up from the bench.

“You know this guy, this Lone Wolf?” Dutch asked, handing him his water bottle. 

“Yeah, he bought me a drink when we were at Chumley’s a couple weeks back. Nice feller, kinda quiet.”

“I wonder how his fighting style is. If Colm’s previous fighters are anything to go off of…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Maybe Colm’s turned over a new leaf.”

Dutch laughed heartily. “And maybe hell has frozen over. Go on, four laps. I’m gonna time you.”

Arthur handed his water bottle back to Dutch and waited for his cue.

\--

Charles woke to the sound of Colm banging on his door. He wrapped himself in his robe, the radiator in his apartment was on the fritz again, and went to the door. “Charles, let me in!” Colm shouted impatiently.

He unlocked the door, backing up before Colm let himself in. “How are you?” Colm asked.

That was strange. Colm _never_ asked him how he was. “Fine.” He checked the clock in his living room. It was too early for bad news.

“How do you feel knowing that you’ll face Pretty Boy in a couple months?” 

_“’Pretty Boy?’”_

Colm rolled his eyes. “Arthur Morgan, Lyle Morgan’s son? Current heavyweight champion? Ringing _any_ bells?” 

An image of Arthur raising his glass to him appeared in his mind. “Oh.”

“Yeah _‘oh_.’ You’re going to train with him this afternoon.”

“I am?” Charles tilted his head to the side. He never saw his opponents until, well…the fight.

“A lot’s gonna be riding on this match. You know his coach, right?”

Charles could see the face of the man, most specifically his prominent mustache and top hat, but not the name. Colm seemed to tell that Charles couldn't recall it. 

_“Dutch van der Linde.”_ He said with a sneer.

Then it all clicked into place. If he had a dollar for every time Colm talked about Dutch, he’d have enough money to buy himself out of his contract. “Will you be there today?” He asked cautiously, fearing that he’d have to hold Colm back from killing Arthur’s coach.

“Management has decided we’ll switch off duties. You never know what dirty tricks Ol’ Dutch has up his sleeves. I’ll have one of my assistants watch over your performance.”

Charles nodded, already thinking of how to fight Arthur. He heard a couple of his fights on the radio, but it was hard to hear over the cheers in the bar. From what he could tell, he was vicious. Quick with his punches, devastating with his knockouts. Dutch always yelled at him to keep his agility going. 

He knew right out the gate, he would come at him. Charles had been in enough fights, legal and illegal, to know that he needed to bide his time. Wait for him to get tired, dodging and blocking his moves, until he could strike.

“If this training session goes well,” Colm cut in on Charles’ racing thoughts, “You could very well expose all of Morgan’s weaknesses.”

“Right.”

Colm clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s why I like you, Charles. A man of few words.” He scribbled down the address for the gym. “Be there at one. Make a good impression.”

Charles looked at the address. It was on the other side of town, near the bar they met at.

“I could be looking at 1925’s heavyweight champion.” Colm smirked, leaving without saying goodbye.

Charles couldn’t seem to catch his breath.  
  


\--  
  


“So when’s _Lone Wolf_ s’posed to be here?” Arthur asked, stretching against the ropes.

“Management said one.” Dutch checked the time. 12:56. “You nervous?”

Arthur scoffed. “No. I didn’t even know this guy was a boxer until you showed me the flyer.” 

“So you haven’t seen him fight, then.”

“Sure haven’t.” 

Dutch stroked his mustache. He only did that when he was nervous.

The back door to the gym opened and Charles stepped in. His cheeks were ruddy against his dark complexion. He was bundled up, but it looked like he was sweating. “Oh good, I’m not late.” He shoved his beanie in his pocket and undid his scarf. He held out his hand for Dutch. “Charles Smith, sorry my hand’s cold.” He greeted.

“No apologies necessary.” Dutch gave him a tight lipped smile. “You run here?”

“A few blocks from the station. I was worried I would be late.” He looked over to Arthur. “Hello _Pretty Boy_.”

“Hello to you too, _Lone Wolf_.” Arthur slid down from the boxing ring. “Never got to thank you for that drink the other night.” He shook Charles’ hand. “I shoulda known you were a boxer, ‘specially with a grip like that.”

“It’s fine, I’ve only been fighting professionally for a few months.”

“What did you—” Arthur started, then was cut off by Dutch’s whistle.

“Get in the ring. Smith, you need to warm up?”

“The run here was enough of a warm-up. I’ll be good.” He removed the layers upon layers of clothing, placing them on one of the folding metal chairs. He was wearing shorts underneath with a white shirt. Arthur figured he should strip down to his shorts and shirt as well. He tossed his sweat suit over the ring ropes.

Charles climbed into the ring, gloves under his arm. “This going to be a real fight?” He asked Dutch.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur asked, stalking his side of the ring. Already getting worked up for the practice match.

“Do I need to wrap my hands?” 

Dutch reached in his pocket and tossed out the bandage to Charles. “It’s a real match, all right. We gotta give the audience a show when you fight! Same goes for you, Arthur. Wrap your hands.”

Charles quickly wrapped his hands, then tossed the remaining bandage to Arthur. He took the time to tie up his hair into a bun. The two men put on their gloves and got into their respective corners.

“Ready, set—” Dutch blew the whistle. 

Just as Charles had suspected, Arthur crowded his corner. Charles did his best to block Arthur’s punches, weaving between his fists. It was easier said than done. A few of them landed on his cheekbone, his clavicle, and his side. Charles listened intently on Arthur’s breathing, soon turning ragged, then he struck. He landed an uppercut on Arthur that would make any glass jaw shatter, but Arthur was not that kind of man.

Arthur staggered back, groaning in pain. Charles hit him a few more times with jabs at his side.

Dutch blew the whistle, and the men returned to their corners. Charles wiped his mouth with his sleeve, not surprised to find blood. He watched Dutch talk to Arthur. He couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he could tell he wasn’t happy. He tweeted the whistle again.

Arthur was more aggressive this time, his punches proving hard to miss. Even blocking them hurt Charles’ forearms something awful. Charles leaned back, able to miss some of Arthur’s swings, then he maneuvered away from the corner. He’d heard enough of Arthur’s matches to know how he’d end the round. He jabbed his obliques a couple of times. He kept looking over at Dutch, knowing the time would be up for the round. Dutch watched the clock with his whistle in his mouth. Charles bobbed and weaved away from Arthur. It was surely three minutes by now. Dutch continued to watch them. “C’mon, Arthur, knock him out!” Dutch yelled, his voice raspy. Arthur swung around, his left hook connecting with Charles’ jaw. A shockwave of pain ricocheted through his body. Before he knew it, he was looking up at the ceiling, squinting at the bright lights.

“Shit, Charles, I’m sorry.” Arthur said, looking over him. “You okay?”

Charles tore off his gloves and wiped his mouth. Sure enough, blood. His tongue swiped around his teeth. They were all there, at least. “I’m fine.”

“Here, son.” Dutch got into the ring with a cup of water. “Drink up.”

Charles got up slowly, scooting back to rest against the ropes. “Thank you.” His head felt fuzzy.

Dutch looked at Arthur. He snapped his fingers. “Don’t fall asleep on us, Smith!”

“I’ll be fine!” He called out, watching the two step down from the mat and go over to the other side of the gym. A lot of gesturing was happening. Charles swilled some water in his mouth and spit it over the edge of the rope.

“Dutch,” Arthur whispered. “I dunno why you’re havin’ me fight some amateur.”

“ _Amateur_? I don’t know if you noticed, but he landed some pretty good hits on you. Someone who moves like that ain’t no amateur.”

Arthur looked up, back at Charles in the ring. His eye was starting to swell. “What’re you proposin’?” 

“Listen…just because I said he ain’t an amateur doesn’t mean he’s a little rough around the edges. I dunno where Colm found him, but I can tell there’s _something_ underneath the fancy bobbing and weaving.”

“You want me to _train_ him?”

“We could really build up this match. It could sell out! Think about it: a newcomer taking on a true blue legend.”

“Hm. I guess.” Arthur untied his gloves.

“I’m going to talk to management to see if I can arrange somethin’ for the next couple of weeks. You talk to Smith and make sure he ain’t falling into a coma.”

“Sure.” Arthur sighed.

“You did good out there, son!” Dutch called out, grabbing his coat. “And you too, Charles!”

Arthur waved him off, going back over to Charles. “Listen—” He started, crawling back into the ring. “I feel real awful I landed such a cheap shot on you. Could I get ya lunch or somethin’?”

“You’re not just asking me because you don’t want me to die before the match?”

“Well, ‘sides that.” Arthur smirked. He held out his hand for Charles to take.

“Let’s hope you know a good diner around here.” Charles muttered, grabbing Arthur’s hand.  
  


\--  
  


It turned out that Arthur _did_ know a good diner. It was a hole-in-the-wall kind of place, where the grease stuck to your clothes long after leaving. “Dutch an’ I have been coming here for years.”

“What’s good here?” Charles asked, looking over the menu.

“I always go with the corned beef on rye. Somethin’ simple.”

They ended up ordering the same meal. The waitress didn’t even bat an eye at their injuries and the dried blood on their faces. 

“Do a lot of boxers frequent here?”

Arthur shrugged. “Probably. No one ever seems to ask what happened.” 

“That, and people know who you are.”

“Mm. I guess that too.”

The two sat uncomfortably as they waited for their meal. 

“How long have you been boxing?” Arthur asked, pulling out a cigarette. 

“Professionally, or overall?” 

“Whichever.” He patted his coat for a match. “You got a light?”

Charles pulled out his father’s lighter. It was scratched to hell, but it still worked like a dream. He leaned forward, cupping the flame. Arthur closed the gap with his cigarette, lighting the end of it. He took a long drag, then exhaled slowly. “You could’ve just handed me your lighter.”

“Sorry, it’s a force of habit that I don’t hand it out.”

“Means that much to you, huh?”

“Yeah.” He quickly moved back to the other question. “I’ve been fighting my whole life, boxing professionally for only a few months.”

Arthur coughed. “And you’re already fighting this good?”

“Did you miss the first part of my answer?”

“No, I definitely heard it. But lots of people can fight in an alley. It takes real talent last in the ring under all that pressure.” Arthur stubbed out his half-finished cigarette, pocketing it for later. “I commend ya. It took me ‘bout a year to be fightin’ in the ring.”

“I was making money throwing fights in the alleys of St. Denis. Turns out Colm O’Driscoll was one of the spectators.”

Arthur thought about the timeline. If that was only a few months ago, then Colm went straight from prison to scouting. He kept his mouth shut.

“What about—” He started, then saw the waitress with their food. “What about you?” 

“Me? Well, nothin’ that interesting.” He took a big bite of his sandwich. “I mean, I kinda had to go into boxing, considerin’ my dad was a boxer.”

“I bet that was hard.”

“Sure was. He was a real tough son of a bitch. After my mom died, I took the place of his punching bag.”

Charles was taken aback by this offhand comment. Something so personal, a confession almost, stated like if he were talking about the weather. 

“Then I hit puberty, an’ I finally started to defend myself. He died before we could get into a real fight.” He seemed frustrated by that fact. “I wandered ‘round for a few years, pickin’ fights an’ robbin’ people. ‘Til Dutch found me when I was about sixteen.”

All Charles could do was eat his meal, nodding. He was concerned by the casual way he talked about his past. After all, this was their first _real_ conversation. The talk they shared at the bar didn’t count.

“Anyway, I don’t mean to bore ya, but that’s a rundown of my life. It ain’t as glamorous as you think.”

“Still,” Charles swallowed his bite. “You’re the heavyweight champion.”

“It’s jus’ a title.” Arthur waved off the mention of his career. “You got a wife?”

Charles shook his head.

“Girlfriend?”

“No.” 

“…Any pets?”

“My apartment doesn’t allow pets.”

“A real shame,” he muttered. “Anyway, I’m a bachelor s’well.”

Charles couldn’t help but listen to his accent. There were shades of southern in his words and pronunciations, but not entirely. “Where did you grow up?” 

Arthur shrugged. “All over. Started west, then moved closer to the south. Kind of been all over.”

“Where did Dutch find you?”

“Up near Chicago, I wanna say.” Arthur took a sip of his water.

“You don’t remember?” 

“It’s been like twenty years, I dunno.”

“Has it always been the two of you?” Charles asked before eating some of his fries.

Arthur shook his head, picking up a slice of corned beef that fell out from his sandwich. “There used to be Hosea. He was in charge of all the money. Bookkeepin’, I think that’s what it’s called. Then he met Bessie an’ settled down.”

Charles thought for a moment. “Then who handles the bookkeeping now?”

“Dutch.”

Charles clicked his tongue, taking a drink of water.

“What do you mean by that?"

“Do you know how much you make per match?”

“Why, do you?”

“I usually make around forty bucks. Colm and I split it fifty-fifty.”

Arthur coughed. “ _Jesus,_ who did you piss off to get such a rotten deal?!”

“It was either that or nothing,” Charles said, kind of annoyed. “Which would you choose?”

“The contract, I s’pose.” Then he added, “But it don’t win by much.”

“At least I know how much I earn.”

“Listen, I know it’s seventy five-twenty five an’ that’s all I need to know.”

Charles kept his mouth shut. Easier to be quiet than face repercussions.

Arthur sighed. “Listen, I’m sorry for what I said earlier. It’s hard to break out of fighting for pennies.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I hope one day you find a better contract.”

“Shit, me too." Charles took a bite of his sandwich. “Don’t tell Colm I said that.”

Arthur scoffed. “I wouldn’t even tell Colm if Dutch was dead, don’t worry ‘bout that.” 

That certainly got the point across. “So.” 

“So?”

Charles said with a laugh, “Pretty Boy.”

“Obviously a holdover when I first started, ‘cause I obviously don’t fit that name anymore.”

“I guess Pretty Man doesn’t have as much of a ring, does it?”

Laughing humorlessly, Arthur said, “Yeah, like _Pretty_ _Man_ suits me.”

“You don’t think it does?”

At first, he was taken aback at the compliment. Then he deflected. “Not for a mug all scarred and beaten like mine.”

“If you say so.”

“I _do_ say so, Lone Wolf.” A wry smile formed on Arthur’s face. “Where’d that come from?”

“It was actually my the name I picked when I first started fighting. Colm only took to it after I turned down all of his other... _unsavory_ options.”

Arthur pulled a face. “Yeesh, I’m not surprised. I’d hate to think of what else he suggested.”

“I’m sure you’ll see flyers saying that I’m a _noble savage_ , or something similar.” Charles said with a sigh.

“I definitely saw somethin’ like that on the flyer Dutch showed me.”

Charles looked out the window. He grit his jaw, then sighed slightly before turning back to Arthur. “I’m used to it, I suppose.”

Maybe Pretty Boy _wasn’t_ such a bad name.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Your eye’s lookin’ pretty swollen.”

Charles touched it tenderly. He could still see out of it, so that was a plus. “I have frozen peas at home.”

“What I’m wonderin’ is if they’ll want us to fight _every_ time.”

Charles shook his head. “There’s no way. Unless we want to put frozen foods out of business." 

“Yeah, or waste all our earnings on doctor’s bills.”

“Anyway, that’s not how I understand it.”

“Does Colm talk to ya?” Arthur asked, resting his forearms on the table. “I mean, do you know what’s going on?”

“He tells me only as much as he wants to.”

“Ah.” A pause. “So you _know_ what the plan is for our match?" 

“How Colm explained it to me was…” Charles thought for a moment to collect his thoughts. “We need to train together to learn each other’s moves. To be so perfectly matched that the entire match will be to predict the other’s routine.”

“Huh. That sounds kinda boring.”

“Not if we go the distance. Give people their money’s worth.” Charles picked up a couple of fries. “What _would_ be boring is a KO in the first round, even if _I_ were the one doing it.”

Arthur stroked his chin. “I suppose so.”

“That’s what he told me.” Charles shrugged.

“Almost like we gotta learn choreography.” Arthur seemed lost in thought. “You dance at all?” 

Charles laughed. “No?” 

“I dated this girl for a real long time. She forced me to learn how to dance. I got two left feet, but somehow I learned to waltz. It helped when Dutch was teachin’ me boxing moves. Maybe we could plan out a routine?”

“It’s not going to be a rigged fight.” Charles stated. “I’ve thrown too many damn fights in my life.”

“Nah, whatever happens, happens. I think we can make it look convincing.”

“As long as I don’t got to take any dance lessons.” Charles smiled slightly.

“I don’t think you’ll need to.” Arthur sat back in the leather seat. He flagged the waitress down for the check.


	2. Chapter 2

“Are you going back to the gym?” Charles asked, slinging on his coat.

Arthur left some change as a tip. “Yeah, Dutch wants me to practice my blocks and footwork. I’m sure _Colm_ wants you back?”

“Why’d you say his name like that?”

“I mean, you know what happened between Dutch and Colm, right?” 

“I heard that Dutch beat Colm’s brother in bare knuckle boxing back in the day.”

“Well _I_ heard Colm stole Dutch’s fiancée. He’s been tryin’ to sabotage Dutch ever since.”

“ _Arthur_. His brother is brain damaged from the fight.”

“You’ve met him?”

Charles sighed as he put on his beanie. “No.”

“How do you know he’s not lyin’?” Arthur seemed smug asking the question.

“How do you know Dutch isn’t?”

Arthur laughed, almost like a scoff, as they left the diner. “I’ve known Dutch a real long time. He wouldn’t lie about somethin’ like that.”

Charles shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, for one thing, I know Colm isn’t married or engaged to anyone.” 

“...Huh.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“Well,” Arthur said, lost in thought, “I guess it was quite a while ago.” 

“Right.” The two of them walked back to the gym, their shoes crunching under the snow. After a block, Charles said, “Look, I’m not saying Colm is a good man. I’m just saying that there’s two sides to everything.”

Arthur was silent for some time, maybe considering that for the first time in his life. “I guess.” 

Charles laughed despite himself. They stopped at a crosswalk. “My station’s down there.” He pointed to the right.

“Which gym do you go to?”

“Rhodes Athletic Club.”

“You go to _that_ gym? Shit, I live just a few blocks up from there.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, at the Avalon." 

Charles was well aware of that apartment building. It was on the way to the station and much more fancy than the building he lived in. “Then why do you go to the gym so far uptown?”

Arthur shrugged. “Dutch wanted me to. He said it’s a nicer facility.”

“Mm, a nicer location, maybe, but they’re about the same.” Charles said, looking down the street. Colm was probably getting impatient. “I guess I’ll see you Wednesday?”

“Yeah, it sounds like they want us three times a week?”

Charles dread to think about the subway fare. “That’s what Colm told me.”

“All right, well—” Arthur gave a weak salute. “Until then.” 

“See you later.” They waved goodbye and went their separate ways.

\--

“I take it Mr. Smith is okay?”

“Sure,” Arthur said, throwing his coat on the metal chair. “I really did a number on his eye, though.”

“Nothing some frozen peas can’t help.” Dutch motioned to the track. “Go get warmed up again.”

Arthur jogged back over to the track. He did a few lunges to start, his hamstrings feeling stiff. He thought about what Charles told him. Dutch beat Colm’s brother so bad it caused _brain damage_ ? He’d known Dutch to get angry, sure, but him beating someone’s brain to mush didn’t sound right. It didn’t sound like him. Arthur ran a few laps around the track, considering what Dutch told him about Colm. Whatever happened between Colm and Dutch was even before he was around. He only saw pictures of the woman, Annabelle, that was allegedly _stolen_ from him. Dutch often spoke fondly of her in the same way he lamented Hosea’s absence.

Arthur never bothered to ask further about it. “All you need to know about Colm is that he’s a ruthless snake.” Dutch told him once, blowing out a mouthful of cigar smoke. Even when Hosea was there, he didn’t challenge him on the story. Maybe he was there when everything happened. It seemed likely.

“Arthur, get over here!” Dutch called out from the ring, “You’re dawdling.”

“Sorry, I was a million miles away.”

“I could tell. Come on, we gotta work on your swings.” He secured boxing pads on his hands.

They started off as they normally do, Arthur getting into his orthodox stance. Swing, jab, block. Bob and weave. Side stepping.

Today, he was out of sorts. Dutch could tell.

He shoved his chest, pushing him back. “Where are you? ‘Cause you sure as hell aren’t here.”

“Sorry, Dutch.” He got back into his fighting stance. “I’m ready.”

He looked at him warily before continuing. “From the top.”

Arthur couldn’t help but think about being in the position of Colm’s brother, watching Dutch’s fists become bloodier with each punch. He didn’t manage to duck from Dutch’s swipe. He stumbled sideways.

“Arthur, what’s going on with you?” Dutch was getting annoyed.

“Nothin’, I swear.”

“Sure don’t look like nothin’. Spit it out.”

Arthur stood up straight, heart pounding. “Did you give Colm’s brother brain damage?”

“Did I—” Dutch laughed. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

“Colm told Charles you did when you fought him.”

He laughed, lighter this time. “Arthur,” he shook his head, “I wouldn’t do such a thing. Colm’s just stirring the pot. Besides, his brother is an O’Driscoll. He was _born_ with some sort of brain damage anyway.” 

Arthur wasn’t convinced, but he nodded anyway.

“Listen, Arthur. I don’t know what kind of poison he’s dripping into Charles’ ear about me, but just know that whatever he says ain’t true.” He put a hand, still wearing the boxing mitt, on Arthur’s shoulder. “ _You_ know it ain’t true, right?” 

He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling in his chest. “I do.”

“Frankly, I do think it’s _peculiar_ you’re talking to Charles about dirty laundry.” Dutch cocked a brow. “Fast friends?  
  
“It just came up, Dutch. Honest.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s not like we sat down an’ asked ‘do you know why our coaches hate each other?’” Arthur placated. “Charles is still new to it, and I figured he’d want to hear what I knew from me and--”

“All _right_ , Arthur, you’ve made your point. And now that the _gossip_ is out of the way—” He stepped back and got into his fighting position. “—Let’s go.”

\--

“Quite a black eye you got there.” Colm remarked when Charles walked in. “I guess Pretty Boy is no joke?”

“He isn’t, but I would say we matched pretty evenly.”

Colm slyly smiled at that. “Just as I thought.”

“Should I hit the weights?”

“I was thinkin’ that. Probably shouldn’t try to work on your punches, since…” He motioned to Charles’ eye. 

Charles took off his outer layers and his hat. “You know where to find me.” 

“You need a spotter?”

“If you don’t mind.” Charles wondered about Colm’s sense of comradery today. Maybe he met with management and got a pay raise for the upcoming fight. Hard to say.

By his third set, he decided to ask. “Arthur told me you stole Dutch’s fiancée?”

His mouth turned into a thin line. “And you decided to ask now when I’m spotting you.”

Charles was careful to bring the barbell back up. “…Yeah.” 

“That was a _long_ time ago. But I remember that she came to _me._ I didn’t steal her.”

Charles re-racked the weights. He waited for Colm to expound.

“I only ‘stole’ her after he beat my brother. If anything, I would say it was a disproportionate retribution.”

“Fair enough.” Charles wondered about his brother, but he figured if _this_ would make him annoyed….

“Let’s try and go up ten pounds.” Colm folded his arms. “I think you can handle it.” He started adjusting the weights without waiting for Charles’ input.

\--

By the time Charles got home, the soreness and injuries caught up with him. Sure, Arthur’s punches hurt at the time. The pain only increased twofold on the subway ride home. He was thankful the elevator was working, even if it did smell like urine.

He held his breath until the eighth floor.

Luckily, it seemed that his landlord fixed the radiator. The only issue was that when it wasn’t freezing, it was hotter than blue blazes. He audibly grimaced at the wave of heat when he walked through the door. To counteract the heat, he opened the windows. After a few minutes, it was livable. Sort of.

He groaned as he took off his clothes. All he wanted to do was soak in the bath. Anything to unravel the pain from his muscles. He searched under the sink for some Epsom salt, pouring practically half the box into the tub. As he got the water to the right temperature, he waited.

He took the time to look at his eye. He’s had worse black eyes, to say the least, but it would still take a few days for the swelling to go down. If nothing else, he could still _see_ around the swollen eyelid. Twisting in the mirror, he looked at the splotchy bruises on his dark skin. He normally didn’t bruise this noticeably _or_ this quickly. His fingers traced around the area of the bruises, still tender to the touch. The bruises overlapped with scars long since healed, pale raised slashes that each told a story as painful as the last.

When the bath was ready, he groaned as he stepped into the clawfoot tub. It was _almost_ too hot. He stuttered out a gasp as he sat down in the tub, then sighed comfortably when he stopped struggling. He should have brought his cigarettes in with him. Or maybe a book. Something to do while he rested until the water turned lukewarm.

Instead, it was just him with his thoughts. His mind kept circling around the Dutch and Colm feud. Truth be told, he didn’t care entirely too much about who started what. He was more concerned about Arthur being trained by someone who could beat someone into a stupor.

Could _Arthur_ be capable of that?

Having heard _and_ witnessed the man’s fighting style, he was convinced he could. If Dutch had no qualms with doing it, he could easily talk Arthur into doing the same. From what he could tell, even in their scant conversations, was that he was indebted to Dutch. Charles figured he was indebted to Colm, but not in the same way. Arthur seemed to see Dutch as more than just a coach. He was a mentor, a boss, a father figure. All the roles he had missing in his life, Dutch filled them in.

He felt strange thinking about Colm in any of those terms.

Sliding down underwater, he plugged his nose. Dried blood flecked off in the water as he shook his head back and forth, his long black hair swaying like seaweed strands.

He waited for the last possible moment to come up for air.

\--

“Well, well, well. Pretty Boy.” Colm smirked at the sight of Arthur in the ring. “Long time no see.”

“Not long enough.” Arthur muttered. “Mornin’ Charles.”

Charles waved and gave a slight smile, tossing his gym bag on the chair. He decided to use this pissing match against Colm and Arthur as an opportunity to use the bathroom. Colm was nice enough to buy him some coffee at the station, but it went right through him.

Colm circled around the ring like a shark, Arthur’s eyes following him around. “You look healthy. Your boss treatin’ you well?”

“Sure is.” Arthur replied, only to be met with Colm’s sneer as a response.

“Let’s hope you learned to fight fair, after all the time from being under Dutch’s wing.” He ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’ll be keeping an extra close eye on you.”

“You as well.” Arthur decided to focus on stretching rather than dealing with this pointless back and forth.

“Charles!” Colm called out. “You almost done?”

He emerged from the bathroom only a few seconds later, wiping his wet hands on his shirt. “I’m ready.”

“No you ain’t. Do some stretches.”

Charles couldn’t decide if he should stretch out of the ring or in the ring, so he stayed put. He did light calisthenics, some jumping-jacks, side stretches, and hamstring stretches. It was better than nothing. “Are we fighting?”

“Why wouldn’t we be?” Arthur asked. His hands were already wrapped.

“I mean _fighting_ fighting.”

Colm shook his head. “Not unless you two want to look like you were hit with a cinderblock. ‘Sides, you still got injuries from Monday.”

Charles climbed into the ring, then walked to his corner.

“Work on blocking.” Colm tossed both of their gloves over the rope. “You can punch, just not full force. And I mean that, _Morgan_.”

Arthur scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”

“When you’re ready.” Colm put his whistle in his mouth, having it hang there. He meant now.

Charles shoved his hands in his gloves, tying them tight. He knew what that meant.

“Your eye’s looking better.” Arthur remarked, taking his time to lace up his gloves.

“Yeah.” Charles said, working on his foot stance. “Lots of R and R.”

“Not too much though, right?” Arthur smiled.

Colm blew the whistle. “Ladies, stop your gabbing and get to your corners!”

Training under Colm was much different, as Arthur quickly figured out. There was no time for chatting, no time to catch a breath, even. He figured this practice would be easier than Monday, or at least less painful.

Oh, how _naïve_.

Colm blew his whistle again. “Hit the track! Keep going until I say stop!”

The two men ran side by side around the track. “Christ alive, is he always like this?” Arthur whispered to Charles.

Charles huffed. “Yeah.”

“Well no wonder you’re so good at fightin’. And I thought Dutch was harsh.”

He smiled inwardly at the compliment. “I’m going to run ahead of you.” Charles said. “Don’t want Colm to see us talking.”

“Go on ahead.”

Finally, after seemingly endless laps, Colm blew the whistle. Charles stumbled as he slowed to a stop. Sweat soaked his white t-shirt. Arthur didn’t look much better. “Good work today.” He said almost reluctantly. “Go and hit the showers.”

“I might call Dutch an’ cancel tomorrow.” Arthur said, groaning as he disrobed.

“You’ll get used to it.” Charles smirked, despite also being in pain. Slightly less than Arthur, it seemed.

“Every training session is like this?”

Charles shrugged. “Usually.”

Arthur wheezed out a laugh. “Jesus.” He grabbed his towel and soap and went into the shower. Charles waited for the water to turn on, then took the shower adjacent to Arthur’s.

“Listen, uh—” Arthur said, eyes squeezed shut as he washed his hair. “I know we just became friends, or acquaintances, an’ all, but would you wanna hang out?”

Charles worked his hair into a lather. “Just us two?”

“Nah, every Wednesday, I meet up with some friends at this speakeasy across town. It’s called The Blind Pig.”

“Quite a name.”

“Yeah, I dunno. Just thought I’d extend the offer.”

“I don’t see why I can’t.” Charles rinsed out his hair.

“I’ll also pay for subway fare.”

“You really want me to go, huh?” Charles laughed.

“Well I figured you didn’t have many other acquaintances or friends in the boxin’ world, so…” He trailed off.

He wasn’t entirely wrong. He’d only moved up to the East Coast a few months ago. Even when he was in St. Denis, he was on his own. Maybe that’s why he was so drawn to the name “Lone Wolf?”

“I said I’ll go.” Charles said lightly.

“Okay, I don’t mean to pressure ya or nothin’.” He seemed almost bashful at his persistence.

\--

A few subway stops over to the west side of the city, in an unfamiliar neighborhood, in the back of a shop, down a steep flight of stairs, behind a cast iron door, Arthur and Charles went into The Blind Pig. It was larger than expected, given the odd roundabout way of getting there. Live jazz music was playing. Drinks were flowing. And Arthur’s friends were cracking up in the back. They politely maneuvered around the smoke-filled bar, past high falutin bankers, lawyers, and flapper girls, to get to the men sitting in the leather booth.

“Gentlemen,” Arthur announced, “What a pleasure!”

“Yeah, a pleasure as always.” One of the men, prominent scars across one side of his face, said with a sarcastic tone.

“Who’s your friend there?” Another man at the table asked.

“Maybe he’s some kinda bodyguard.” A man with orange hair and a thick Irish accent joked.

“He ain’t no bodyguard!” Arthur rolled his eyes. “Charles, this is Sean, Javier, and John.” Charles waved at the men. They gave their respective greetings, a handwave, a head nod, and a slight hand raise. “Lenny here yet?”

“He’s in the loo!” Sean, the redhead piped up.

“We call it a bathroom here.” John chided.

“Whatever the case, he’ll be a minute.”

“You two can sit down, you know.” Javier smirked. 

The two sat down across from the other men. “Oh, before I forget.” John dug through his pockets and pulled out a rolled up paper bag. “Arthur.” 

Arthur slid a five across the table, taking the bag. “Thank ya kindly.”

Charles watched this exchange, knowing exactly what it was. He found it amusing that even in a speakeasy, they had to be discreet.

Charles felt John’s eyes studying him. “You a boxer?” He put the money in his coat pocket.

“I am. Gonna be fighting Arthur next month.”

“Ah, so that explains the—” Javier motioned a circle around his eye.

Charles laughed slightly. “Courtesy of Arthur.”

“Hah! I figured. Arthur always was a bruiser.” 

“Only ‘cause you don’t know how to block.” Arthur muttered. “I’m gonna get some drinks. What do you want?”

“Whatever’s on tap is fine. I’ll get the next round.”

Arthur made his way to the bar, counting his change. 

“Are you a boxer, John?”

“I am! Well, I _was_. And then I made the mistake of getting married and having a kid. _Not_ in that order, either.” 

Sean scoffed. “He really likes to do the whole ‘oh, life is so terrible with me child and wife.’”

“Yeah, truth is he’s a real softie.” Javier wrapped an arm around his neck. “Ain’t ya, _Scarface_?”

“Don’t call me that—” John laughed, shoving him.

“I miss something?” Lenny asked, climbing over the seat. 

Sean nudged him. “It’s about time you showed up! I was worried we’d have to send someone to rescue you.”

Lenny laughed, explaining, “There was a line! They only got one bathroom here. And you know the girls in here love to powder their nose.”

“Ah, s’that what they’re doing in there? Oh! Arthur brought a friend. His name’s Charles and he’s very quiet.”

“Probably because he can’t get a word in over you.” Lenny held out his hand. “Lenny Summers.”

As Charles took his calloused hand in his, he squinted at him. He looked so familiar. “Did you used to fight in St. Denis?”

Lenny’s eyes widened with realization. “ _Lone Wolf_!”

“ _Cruel Summers_!” He laughed. “When’d you come up here?”

“’Bout six months ago. Then I met these fellers.”

“Huh,” Charles shook his head incredulously. “Small world. You’re fighting solo?”

Lenny shook his head. “Nah, I’m fighting with this Irish fool next to me as a duo.”

“It’s quite a _sensational_ billing, as you can imagine.” Sean smiled widely, showing off his missing front tooth. 

“Sorry ‘bout the wait,” Arthur handed Charles a bottle. “Who knew Wednesdays were so goddamn busy?!” 

“All of us?” Javier laughed.

“You didn’t tell me you knew Lenny Summers!” Charles said to Arthur after taking a long pull from his drink.

“I didn’t—how d’you know him?” 

“We used to fight around the same parts of St. Denis.” 

Arthur looked at Lenny. “You ever fight him?”

Lenny made a face. “Arthur, look at me, and look at him. I wouldn’t fight him unless I’d want to be buried six feet under.”

Arthur stroked his chin, running his fingers over his diagonal scar. “Well, John fought me despite him being a lightweight.”

“Only because Dutch forced me to!” 

“He ain’t forced ya!”

Arthur and John started bickering, so Charles turned his attention to Javier. “You’re a boxer as well?”

He huffed out a laugh. “And ruin this face? No, I’m a troubadour. I just know these knuckleheads through John and Arthur.”

Sean scoffed. “A _troubadour_. Oh boy. Jus’ say you’re a busker playing for pennies.”

“I just got a gig at one of the other speakeasies around here.” Javier said a little defensively.

“I’ll believe it when I see it!” 

Arthur and John finally seemed to calm down. “Sorry ‘bout that.” Arthur said to Charles.

“They do this all the time.” Javier said, finishing his drink. “Who wants another round?”

Everyone raised their hand except John. “Sorry guys, I gotta go home. I’m sure the ol’ ball and chain is starting to worry ‘bout me.”

 _“’Ball and chain,’”_ Lenny muttered. “Just say you love your wife and be done with it!”

John tapped the table. “Maybe next time.” He slipped out of the booth, his coat slung over his shoulder. The men said their goodbyes.

Javier turned back to the group. “So everyone else wants a drink?” The men nodded.

Javier counted and sighed. “The line’s brutal. See you in about two hours.” He stepped out of the booth and went up to the bar.

Sean saw a woman that seemed to catch his eye. “Let me know when he gets back.” 

Lenny also looked over the booth. He gasped. “Jenny’s here!” He managed to hop over the back of the booth, calling out, “Jenny! Jenny!”

Arthur laughed. “Lenny an’ Jenny.”

“Quite a combo.” Charles took another drink.

“He’s been chasin’ her for weeks now. Same with Sean and Karen.” 

Charles looked back at the dance floor. Sean and Lenny seemed well paired up with their respective ladies.

“See anyone that catches your eye?” Arthur asked, noticing Charles was still looking around. 

“Not particularly. ‘Sides, I’m not much of a dancer.” Truth be told, he never danced with anyone; he’d seen plenty of couples dance in clubs. “What about you?”

Arthur finished off his bottle. “Ah, no one really seems to be suitin’ my fancy tonight.” 

“But other nights are different.” Charles smirked.

Arthur, peeling off the label on the bottle, laughed. “Yeah, I’m a real Casanova.”

“I’m sure.”There was a lull between them. “Dutch was also John’s coach?”

“Yeah, kinda. He did fine in his lightweight matches, but he and Dutch…” Arthur trailed off. “They fought a lot.”

“About what?” 

“I dunno. I tried to stay out of it. Dutch was pretty angry ‘bout him losing focus. When he an’ his wife Abigail first got together, he was really losin’ matches. And then she got pregnant—”

“And it only got worse?” 

“Sure did. He got injured real bad in a fight, and Abigail got involved, telling him he had to choose between fightin’ and havin’ a family.”

Charles thought about the other guys teasing him. “Ah, so he chose his family?”

“Not at first. He was absent from his son’s life for…” Arthur thought about the timeline. “About six months.” 

Charles clicked his tongue. 

“Look, I feel the same way ‘bout it. Then _we_ started fightin’ over it. That’s when Dutch ended John’s contract.”

“Shit, why?” 

“I started losin’ matches.”

He scoffed. So it wasn’t for the goodwill of John and his family. “So Abigail took him back.” 

“Not without some push back. But they made it work, if only for Jack’s sake at first. Seems like they’re better now. He’s doin’ what he can.”

“I guess I just don’t understand why John wouldn’t make the right decision.”

Arthur shrugged. “Dutch raised him as much as he raised me. He felt too indebted to him to leave, I guess.”

“Just like you feel indebted?”

The words seemed lodged in Arthur’s throat. He knew, in theory, he’d make the correct decision. He was also lucky he was never faced with that option, mostly by choice. “I—”

“Sorry ‘bout the wait.” Javier said, placing the drinks down on the table.

“Thank you,” Arthur uncapped the bottle on the edge of the table. He took a swig. “Good luck findin’ Lenny and Sean.”

“I’m just gonna flag them down. The dance floor’s a mess right now.” Javier waved his hand in the general direction of the dance floor. “Ah, fuck it. They’ll come up for air.”

“Dunno ‘bout that one. Karen and Jenny are here tonight.”

“Ahh, I see.” Javier drank some of his mixed drink. “I’ll probably go out there when I’m done with this.” He motioned to his glass. “You gonna dance, Charles?”

He shook his head. “I probably need to head home soon.”

“The night’s still young!” 

Charles laughed. “For you, maybe.”

Javier scoffed. “C’mon, come out and dance. I could find both of you a lady.”

Arthur laughed. “An’ I’m pretty sore from trainin’, Javier.”

“If you say so.” He took another sip of his drink. “The offer’s on the table.”

“Sure is tempting.” Arthur said sarcastically. Javier left the booth, spotting a lady. He gave Arthur a strong pat on the shoulder.

Charles polished off his drink and slipped on his coat. “Tell the other guys I said goodbye.” 

“You’re really leavin’?” Arthur almost seemed a little crestfallen.

Charles sighed, buttoning his coat. “I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?”

“I am, but Dutch an’ I are training in the afternoon.” 

“Aren’t you lucky.” Charles looked out at the exit. It was on the other side of the crowded dance floor. “Wish me luck in finding a way out of here.”

Arthur laughed. “Another reason why I don’t wanna leave now. Good luck.”

As Charles weaved through the crowd, he found Javier dancing practically cheek-to-cheek with a short-haired lady. “Charles, you’re really leaving now?”

“I told you I was?”

Javier spun his dance partner around. “Yeah, but I thought you meant in an hour or something.” He turned to the woman. “Dottie, you got any friends that want to dance?”

“I think Veronica might want to!” Dottie started shouting out for her friend’s name. 

Charles, not only feeling tired but overheated from the club, shouted to Javier, “Maybe next time!”

“Next week?” Javier shouted back. 

“Yeah.” He looked back to the booth where Arthur was sitting. “You could drag Arthur out here!”

“I might do that.” He grabbed Dottie’s hand. “Darling, I have a different friend who wants to dance.”

“Good night!” Charles called out, although he could tell Javier’s attention was entirely on Dottie.

After going through the convoluted process of getting back up to ground level, he gladly breathed in the cold city air. He never thought he’d prefer the cold over a sweltering Jazz speakeasy. It was starting to snow. His ears were still muffled from the sounds of the bar. He exhaled as he walked to the subway station, pulling his hat down lower. His preference for the cold was short lived, it seemed.

Now was the matter of getting home.

\--

“Hey there handsome,” Dottie said to Arthur. “My friend over there wants to dance.”

“Dance?” Arthur laughed slightly, finishing off his beer. Sleep was starting to settle into his muscles. “I’m sorry, I ain’t much in the mood to—”

“She already got stood up once tonight, so she ain’t taking no for an answer.” She pulled him up practically by the collar of his shirt. “Just for one song, okay?” 

“All right, but it’s been a _long_ time since I danced with anyone.” 

“That’s okay! My friend Veronica’s quite the greenhorn at this dancing.”

He was pulled further into the dance floor, off to find Dottie’s friend. He saw Lenny and Sean, each smooching their respective dance partners. 

“There you are!” Javier called out. “What’d you have to do to get him out here?”

“I just relied on my feminine wiles.” Dottie batted her eyelashes, wrapping an arm around Javier’s waist.

“She said she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“That too!” She motioned for her friend to come over. “This is Veronica.”

She was cute enough, a little shy and tiny. Arthur held out his hand. “How do you do?”

“Fine.” She smiled timidly. “You’re a dancer?”

Arthur laughed. “I wouldn’t say that, but I know a few moves.”

“Probably more than me.” She rubbed her arm.

“You’ll do fine. Just follow my lead.” 

The Jazz band started to play an upbeat swing number. 

Just one song. Arthur thought, smiling as he started off easy with his steps.

Veronica was shy in her steps, apologizing every time she misstepped.

“It’s okay,” Arthur would say. “It’s just dancing.”

“I know.” 

The song was over before either of them knew it. Veronica curtseyed and quickly escaped the dance floor.

“Sorry about Ronnie,” Dottie said, “She’s got nerves.”

“No trouble at all. She was the perfect dance partner. And on that note—” He bowed to her and Javier.

Arthur went back to the booth and got his coat, slinging it over his shoulders. He was used to a French exit like this, as were his friends. 

\--

He got back to his apartment after midnight. As he took off his coat, he fumbled for the brown paper bag from John. A couple of dimebags and rolling papers. Arthur stripped down to his t-shirt and underwear, then carefully rolled up a joint by the windowsill. It was a coping mechanism he’d had on and off for years, probably even before he’d met Dutch. After John left, Arthur didn’t bother asking where he got his supply from. Probably half the boxers in this city were regular dope smokers. It certainly wasn’t taboo among the circles he ran in. There was nothing else—not sex, or meditation, or working out, or drinking—that calmed his mind more. Dutch hated the stuff; he always worked Arthur a bit harder if he found out he smoked the night before. “I better get you sweating that shit out, Arthur.” Arthur didn’t bother to ask why he was so against it.

He licked down the side of the rolling paper and twisted the ends of the joint. Before striking a match, he opened the window. Anything to keep the smell off of him. He struck a match against the matchbook he stole from Chumley’s a few weeks prior. Light, inhale, hold for as long as possible, exhale out the window. This, like his maneuvers around the ring or dancing in the speakeasy, were measured. As he breathed in the cold night air, he inhaled again.

He sat by the window, thinking about earlier. How his friends were so inviting. He’d hoped Charles wasn’t put off any, especially by Arthur bickering with John. He kept thinking back to the two of them sitting side by side, watching the people dance to Jazz standards. It made his heart ache, in a way. He danced with Veronica, sure, but it wasn’t what he wanted. It had been so long since he held someone close as they danced. He never thought he would ever crave dancing in the same way Mary always did, at least back in the day. Arthur took another hit, cupping his hand as he exhaled out the window. He started to feel warm despite the cold air blowing on him. His limbs felt light. He took one more hit before stubbing it in the ashtray nearby. He shut the window, then got up to use the bathroom. Arthur grabbed the brown bag, rolling it up again and putting it in his sock drawer. He got ready for bed, even remembering to brush his teeth. 

As he collapsed on the bed, feeling giggly and slightly high, all he could think of was holding someone close. 

\--

Charles tossed his gym bag next to his bed and shed his coat. The heat in his apartment had adjusted to a livable temperature, at least for now. Charles clicked the single light in the kitchen, choosing to make a sandwich. He was feeling peckish, not normally awake at this hour on a weeknight. He ate his peanut butter sandwich at his dining room table, not bothering to get a plate. He swiped the crumbs to the floor, making a note to vacuum tomorrow night. He clicked the light off, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. The only minor source of light was the streetlights outside peeking through the blinds.

Stretching, his muscles feeling tense from sitting, Charles collapsed on the bed. His headboard smacked against the wall. Charles heard the angry knocks from his neighbor against the drywall. He’d never had the _pleasure_ of meeting this man, but he certainly made his presence known. Charles grabbed the headboard to get it to stop rattling.

Laying on his back, staring at the water stains on the ceiling, Charles thought about earlier. About Arthur’s friends. About Arthur all but _refusing_ to dance. About how nice it was to see Lenny again. 

He sighed, and a reluctant part of his brain brought up the feeling of his leg being so close to Arthur’s as they watched people dance. Running a hand down his right leg, it almost felt like Arthur’s leg was pressed against his. A warmth.

Charles cleared his throat, sticking his hand down the front of his boxers. He wanted to think about the last time there was a familiar heat of someone’s legs pressed against his. It was a couple of months ago, right after he moved to the city. He got to chatting with a lady at a speakeasy, her olive skin covered in freckles. After buying her a few drinks, she invited him to her place.

He closed his eyes, stroking at the thought of her smooth skin on his. That warmth. How he sank into her. 

A few months even further back, even before Colm found him in St. Denis, a man invited him to his place. He was strong, but shorter than him. He had so much hair on his chest. His hands were strong, large. 

That _warmth_.

The two most recent incidents, further back than he’d prefer, fueled him into stroking faster. He started to buck up into his hand. His breathing got shallow.  
  
The headboard hit the wall a few times. His neighbor practically punched the wall. 

His hand grabbed his headboard. He was too close to do anything else. He stifled a moan as he came, fearful of his neighbor somehow being able to hear him. 

No knocks. That was a good sign.

He scrambled to find his gym bag. The clothes in there were already dirty; no sense in making _more_ dirty clothes. He found a shirt, wiping his hand off and plopping it right next to the bag. 

Carefully, without making the headboard shake, he crawled back into bed.

He slipped under the covers, sleep settling in quickly. He fell asleep with his hand pressed against his right leg.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a note, i use a Completely Convenient Trope found in a lot of rom-coms and fics and i will fully own up to it being Convenient. you'll know what i mean at the end. 
> 
> ENJOY! hope y'all like flashbacks. there's a handful of them!

Arthur woke up to the sound of Dutch banging on his door.

“Arthur, I know you’re awake and ready to go!” Sure, it was wish fulfillment, but he was mostly glad Dutch wasn’t letting himself in— 

Arthur heard the lock turn, and as soon as the door swung open, he was out of bed. Dutch sighed at Arthur’s sleepy demeanor. “I should have known you wouldn’t be up.”

“Thought we weren’t going in ‘til one?” Arthur yawned.  
  
“It _is_ one, Arthur.” Dutch checked his watch. “I stand corrected. It’s _after_ one.”

Arthur was already grabbing his clothes out of the dresser and from the floor. Dutch sniffed suspiciously. “You’ve been smoking again?” He asked, crinkling his nose at the lingering smell.

“Nah, but I think my neighbors have. Comes through the vents, ya know—” Arthur pulled on a sweatshirt.  
  
“Uh huh,” he said, unconvinced. “C’mon, you’re going for a jog. I got my bike down from the gym.”

“I’m sure that was a pain on the subway—”

“It _was_.” He sighed. “If you keep your trap shut, maybe I’ll buy you an egg sandwich at the shop.”

Arthur scoffed. “Oh, a big incentive.”

Dutch looked at him. “How many miles do you think you can run on an empty stomach, Arthur?”

He stayed quiet, knowing it was only a couple of miles. Especially now that he missed breakfast _and_ lunch. 

“That’s what I thought.” He opened the door again. “Be down in the lobby in three. I’m timing you. Every minute you’re late is another mile.”

Arthur groaned. For the most part, Dutch was tough, but fair. Today seemed to be an exception to the rule.  
  
In some ways, it felt like Arthur was still the same person he was when he met Dutch. Like he was just a kid, scrapping for pennies, desperate for guidance. He couldn’t help but think back to nearly twenty years ago as he tied up his shoes.

—

_“Good fightin’ tonight, Morgan.” The referee said as he passed him his measly earnings. It wasn’t_ that _good of a fight, but he still won._

 _“Thanks, Earl.” Arthur said, licking his fingers as he counted the money. He threw on his tattered coat, braving the cold._

_“Hey,” a man called out as Arthur left the athletic club. He was dressed in a fine peacoat, smoking a cigar. “You Lyle Morgan’s son?”_

_Arthur twisted up his bruised face. “Who’s askin’?”_

_The man laughed. “Just like your father, always ready for a fight.” He blew out a puff of smoke. “The name’s Dutch Van der Linde. I knew your dad.”_

_Scoffing, he said, “My dad never mentioned a_ Dutch _.”_

 _“He certainly didn’t refer to_ you _much either. I didn’t even know your name until it was announced tonight.”_

_Arthur didn’t need to deal with this. He shoved his hands in his pockets and kept on walking._

 _Dutch caught up with him, tossing his cigar into the snow. “Wait, son!”_

_“I ain’t your_ son _—”_

 _“Sorry, sorry._ Arthur. _We got off on the wrong note.”_

 _Arthur kept walking, but slightly slower._

_“I used to box with your dad. I saw what he could do. He hardly mentioned his family—”_

_The crosswalk light was blinking. Arthur risked it. Dutch ran across as well, gaining on him. “Listen, kid—” He reached out and put a hand on his shoulder when they were on the other side of the street. Arthur stepped away from the gesture. “I saw you fight in there. I see a_ lot _of potential.”_

_Finally, Arthur turned to look at Dutch. It was only now in the red glow of the light that he saw Dutch’s face was just as bruised as his._

_“You’re rough around the edges, but I can help you. I know you don’t have a coach.”_

_“Don’t need one. Besides, you’ll take all my winnings.”_

_Dutch laughed as if there was a joke. “You_ do _need one. You’re—how old are you?”_

_“Fifteen.”_

_“Just a boy! Plenty of time to learn!” He tried to pat Arthur on the shoulder, but Arthur backed away. “You have much more potential than your old man, I can just tell.”_

_Arthur’s sour face softened. He looked up from his raggedy shoes. Running his tongue over his fat lip, he asked, “How much are you going to charge?”_

_“Only twenty-five percent. Most coaches require half. No contract for me.”_

_Arthur balked. “I barely make shit now!”_

_“Yes,_ now _. But in due time, you’ll be sellin’ out stadiums. You can mark my word on that.”_

_“…Okay.” He said._

_Dutch grinned. “You won’t regret this, boy.”_

  
—

Charles jabbed at the sandbag, bouncing in his steps.  
  
“I saw you left with Arthur last night.” Colm said, stabilizing the bag.  
  
His eyes darted over to Colm, then back to the sandbag. “We just went out for a drink.”

“Ah, so you got to see his misfit friends as well?”

Charles scoffed. “Hardly. The place was packed. I didn’t stay for long.”

“Not long to hear anything ‘bout Dutch?”

Charles kicked the side of the bag. “Only that he used to train someone named John.”

Colm cackled. “ _Scarface_. I remember him.”

“Arthur said John would fight with Dutch over his lack of focus.”

“I remember that as well. _Many_ matches started off shakily with Ol’ Dutch gettin’ in a screaming match with Scarface.” He let go of the sand bag to pull out a cigarette from behind his ear. “Did he tell you how he got those scars?”

“It wasn’t during boxing?”

Colm laughed, lighting a match. “He got it when he was drunk off his ass. Tried to climb over a fence, sliced his face on barbed wire.”

Charles shuddered. John got off easy if that was the case.  
  
“You should have seen the look on Dutch’s face when John showed up to the next match. Lookin’ like some kind of ragdoll, all stitched up—” Colm went into a fit of laughter at the thought. “Talk about that throwin’ his focus.”

“And the opponent’s focus, I bet.”

Nodding, Colm motioned for Charles to take a break. “If only there was a way to make Arthur break his concentration.”

Charles laughed as he wiped his face off with his shirt. “Yeah right. He’s way too under Dutch’s thumb to have that happen.”

“Ah, you’ve witnessed that firsthand?” Colm smirked.

He played it cool. “Who hasn’t?’

“Fair enough. If only Annabelle were still mine, then maybe I’d be able to work on _Dutch_ —” He shook his head. “Go to the speed bag. I’ll time you.”

—

In the middle of their run, they stopped in the park. Arthur got a drink from the water fountain as Dutch pulled out a piece of paper. “You got a pen?”

He wiped off his mouth with his sleeve. He’d sweat through the sweatshirt, despite the cold weather. “Sorry, I don’t normally run with pens.” Arthur huffed, too wiped out to laugh at his joke.

Dutch searched his pockets. “Wait, I think I—” He pulled out a small pencil from his jacket. “I gotta write something down for you. I forgot to do it earlier, but luckily I still remember the number.”

“What could that possibly be, directions?”

“Not quite. Management wanted me to pass along Mr. Smith’s number.” 

Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

Dutch shrugged. “Either for promotion, or if they want you two to arrange night sessions.”

Arthur balked. “Exactly how much damn training do they want us to do?”

“I trust management to know what they’re doing,” Dutch said pointedly, handing him the scrap of paper. “Since they don’t think I do.”

Arthur took the paper, looking at the numbers. “Hope it won’t get sweaty on the run back.”  
  
“You’ll be fine. Just put it in your pocket.” Dutch got back on his bike, a little rickety in its old age. “Ready to go?”

Arthur took a deep breath. “Yeah, let’s go.”

—

It was Sunday, Charles’ favorite day of the week. No obligations, no Colm, nothing. He didn’t set an alarm, managing to stay in bed until seven. For his plans that day, he did chores, some grocery shopping, ran basic errands, and then stayed out and about until he figured he had to turn in to get ready for tomorrow. He didn’t get home until dinnertime. 

Well, it was more like _after_ dinnertime. It was well past eight. He pulled out a box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce from his groceries. Maybe, to zest up the cheap sauce he got, he could put in some onions and mushrooms. He got the water to a boil, chopped up the vegetables—

His phone rang. 

He looked at the ringing phone as if it were about to bite him. No one called him. It probably wasn’t Colm, since he made a point _not_ to call on Sundays. Maybe it was his cranky neighbor who finally got ahold of his number and tell him to keep the noise down? Any old rivals? Before he got too worked up, he picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Charles?” Arthur asked.

He looked over at the clock. A strange hour for him to be calling, or even calling at all. “Arthur, good evening.”

“Hope I’m not botherin’ ya or nothin’.”

“Not at all. I’m just cooking.”  
  
“Mm, anything good?”

Charles carried the phone back into the kitchen. He absentmindedly stirred the bubbling sauce. “Just some spaghetti and sauce. Nothing too fancy.”

“Sounds fancy to me.”

Charles laughed. Then, after a beat, he said, “Oh, you’re serious.”

“...Yeah.”

The water was bubbling. He poured the box of spaghetti into the pot. “How did you get my number?”

“Oh, management gave it to me. Well, they gave it to Dutch, then he gave it to me. I guess they want night training instead of two-a-days?”

Charles laughed humorlessly. “How much training do they want us to do?”

“That’s what I said!” Arthur said, inhaling. “Anyway,” he said, his voice sounding strained, “I think in a week or so Dutch is going to give me a spare to the gym.”

Charles stirred the sauce, watching the clock. “I could also ask Colm to find a spare for my gym. It’s closer anyway.” He heard some coughing over the line. “Are you smoking cigarettes in your apartment?”

Arthur wheezed out a laugh. “Ain’t smoking _cigarettes_."

An image of John passing Arthur a brown bag at the speakeasy flashed in his mind. “... _Ah_.”

“You partake?” He asked, taking another drag.

Charles laughed, thinking about the last time he actually _did_ partake. Must’ve been well over ten years ago. “When I was a kid, maybe, but it’s been a _long_ time.”

“They don’t make it like they used to, I can tell ya that.” Arthur pulled himself away from the receiver to cough. “But that’s a good thing.”

“Oh, you mean it actually _works_ now?” Charles laughed. The noodles seemed well-boiled. He turned the heat off.

“Sure does.” Arthur said, sounding a little looser. “You should come over and try it sometime.”

Charles’ throat felt tight. “Maybe. My dinner’s done.”

“I’ll leave ya to it, then.”

“And you yours.” Charles said with a smile.

“See ya tomorrow then, Smith.”

“Good night, Arthur.”

He heard Arthur mutter a goodbye and put the phone on the receiver. 

As Charles set his phone back to the bedside table, he couldn’t help but think of how Arthur said that. Was it a proposition? He went back to his spaghetti, pouring the noodles into a colander. He scooped some onto a plate and poured sauce over it. He sat at the dinner table, hearing the incessant ticking of his clock, as he ate his meal. Did Arthur know? If he did, who would have told him? The only person who _would_ know about Charles’ preference was a trusted confidant:

 _Lenny_.

—

_“How much do you have?” Lenny asked, pocketing his billfold._

_“About twenty.”_

_“Is that enough to go out?”_

_Charles shrugged. “I’ll go out either way.”_

_A smile crept onto Lenny’s face, still bruised from the fight. “Good.”_

_Charles buttoned up his tattered waistcoat and adjusted his sleeves. “Lead the way.”_

_Lenny walked out of the small alleyway, back into the main city street. The crowds surrounding them for their fights had all but dispersed, their wallets a little lighter. Charles still was debating on getting a drink. He was mostly, as he’d done in the past, going out with Lenny to keep an eye on him. He was younger than Charles, just shy of twenty. Charles felt a kinship with him, seeing him almost as a little brother._

_That, and he had a habit of getting lost in the saloons around town. It was just best to be his bodyguard in case anyone tried to pickpocket him (or worse)._

_Lenny pulled his tweed flat cap down lower to hide his bruises and injuries from the bright street lights. Charles, having fared better in the fight (he fought a large man, even taller than him, but he was too slow for him), kept his head up._

_“Which saloon do you wanna go to?”_

_“Winner’s choice.”_

_“We’re both winners, Charles!” He laughed._

_“Oh, right.” He felt a lightness in his chest. It had been a while since he won a match. “Let’s go to that one down the street.”_

_“Feeling fancy tonight, huh?”_

_“Guess so.” The truth was that he hadn’t broken in his new loafers just yet and he could feel a blister forming._

_In the saloon, the two of them spotted a few familiar boxers around the city. Not exactly people to drink with. The rest of the saloon seemed to be people that watched the fight, because they barely got two steps in before people pulled them aside to talk to them._

_“Sit, stay for a while.” One of the men at a table full of incredibly wealthy-looking people told Charles. He wasn’t sure how this conversation was going to go. Either he was going to sit uncomfortably while people question him as some sort of curio, or they’ll be nice people._

_“I don’t know,” Charles said, looking for Lenny. He’d already made an acquaintance with one of the young ladies here._

_“I’ll buy you a drink,” The man said. He seemed to be a little older than Charles. His mustache was curled and his hair was slicked back. “What’ll you have?”_

_“Just a lager I suppose.”_

_“No, he deserves a winner’s drink!” One of the ladies piped up. “Get him something top shelf!”_

_“Brown or clear?”_

_“Brown, please.”_

_The man called out for the barkeep. “Garcon! Garcon!”_

_The old man behind the bar seemed unpleased by the title. “Garcon means boy. I would think you know that.”_

_“Yes, yes, it seemed to slip my mind.” He put his hand on the back of Charles’ chair. “Get my fine friend here two fingers of the good stuff.”_

_Charles didn’t know exactly what he meant by “the good stuff,” but a free drink was a free drink. The bartender walked back to his post._

_“So tell us about yourself, Lone Wolf,” one of the ladies said from behind her painted fan._

_He looked over at Lenny. Still talking to the lady. Good. “There isn’t much to say.”_

_The people at the table leaned forward. “Well surely someone with your background would have something interesting to note?” She pressed further. He could feel their eyes on him. The man with the mustache was the only one sitting back, swirling his wine._

_This drink better be “the good stuff.”_

_—  
  
_

_Lenny wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. Maybe he’ll die here, right next to Catherine. And wouldn’t that be nice?_

_Catherine, with her sweet perfume that seemed to put him into a trance. Her light laughter at all of his jokes, even the ones he knew weren’t funny. Maybe she was trying to get into his wallet, but he didn’t care. He caressed her bare arm. She kissed his cheek. “Do you want to see my room?”_

_“Uh—” Lenny’s heart was lodged in his throat. He wasn’t a blushing virgin – well, he’d lost it nearly a year prior. It was more that he was caught off guard from the jump between friendly conversation and exchanging services, so to speak. “I have to go to the bathroom.” He said, feeling clumsy and a little silly._

_There was a line for the bathroom. Lenny went out the backdoor in lieu of waiting. He couldn’t bear to keep making eye contact with Catherine across the room._

_The humid St. Denis air hit him like a pillow to the face. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust as he stumbled slightly to the drain. He didn’t like making a habit of this, but only now that he was outside, he realized how bad he had to go. Beer always went right through him, something that he forgot every time he drank._

_His hands fumbled to get his belt unbuckled and pants down. Was this more complicated than usual, or had he drank more than he thought? Either way, he was pissing right down the drain. He sighed at the relief._

_“Sorry about my friends earlier.” He heard a voice say down the narrow alleyway. “They can be too close-minded.”_

_“It’s okay.” He heard Charles’ voice. “I’ve definitely heard worse in my time.”_

_“I’m sure you don’t enjoy people asking those questions though, right?”_

_“Of course not. It’s nothing new, though.”_

_Lenny finished up his business and buckled his belt back up. He peeked just slightly around the corner of the building. A tall and lanky man with a mustache was stubbing out the cigarette against the stucco. He and Charles were standing very close. His mother always told him not to spy on people, but the more callous (and drunk) part of his brain figured his mother wasn’t here right now._

_“What else isn’t new?” The man asked, moving closer to Charles._

_“Strange men hitting on me.” He smirked, fingers playing with the man’s tie._

_“_ I’m _strange?” The man laughed._

_“Yeah, very strange.” He pulled him in for a gentle kiss. The man braced the wall. The kiss seemed passionate._

_Lenny put his hand over his mouth to contain his gasp. Either he made too much noise or he stepped out too far to be seen, but Charles looked over. For a split second, their eyes locked. Different kinds of fear. Lenny’s legs moved before his brain told them to. He rounded the corner as Charles called out for him. He burst through the back door, paid no mind to Catherine, grabbed his coat off the hanger near the front, and ran until he couldn’t hear Charles following him anymore. He caught his breath, hands resting on his knees. He didn’t know what to make of what just happened. He could chalk it up to a flight or fight response, but…why did he run? It’s not like Charles would have fought him._

_Maybe he ran because it definitely was something he wasn’t meant to see. He probably should have listened to his mother’s advice._

_—_

_Days later, Lenny waited until one of Charles’ back alley matches was done. As Charles unwrapped his bloody hands, he saw Lenny sitting on the steps leading up to the balcony. After collecting his winnings, he climbed up the stairs, sitting down next to him._

_“Surprised you’re here to see me.” Charles said, not quite sure how the conversation was going to go._

_“I figured I needed to talk to you about what happened last Friday.” Lenny said. He kicked some pebbles down the stairs._

_Charles sighed, folding his arms. He was already tired of this conversation. He could count on one hand how many people knew about his personal life, and each conversation went about the same._

_“I’m sorry I was spying on you.”_

_“_ …What _?”_

_“It’s a long story, but I had to go to the bathroom as a way of stalling, since one of the girls in the saloon asked if I wanted to go upstairs.”_

_“Doesn’t sound like a long story.”_

_“Well, that’s why I was outside. And I heard talking, and your voice. I was too curious. And, well, a little tipsy.”_

_Charles stayed silent._

_“So…sorry for listenin’ in. And, well, for running.” He ended awkwardly._

_Charles was quiet for a long time. Finally, he looked over at Lenny. “That’s all you wanted to talk about?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“You…haven’t talked to anyone else about this?”_

_Lenny shook his head. “I wouldn’t do somethin’ like that!”_

_Charles seemed to relax a little. He looked out at the city from the steps. “I just thought I would ask. Since…” he paused. “I don’t exactly fit in to begin with.”_

_“I understand how that is.” Lenny said, tone softer. “I wouldn’t sabotage your career or nothin’.”_

_It looked like Charles had a lot to say. Relief, gratitude, anguish, anxiety…._

_“Thank you,” was all he said._

_“….So.” Lenny started._

_Charles laughed. He had a feeling this conversation wasn’t done._

_“You like women and men?”_

_Charles shrugged. “Yeah.”_

_Lenny looked as if that never occurred to him before. “…Oh.”_

_He laughed some more, lightly shoving Lenny._

—

  
“You coming out with me tonight?” Arthur asked Charles, toweling himself off. 

It was Wednesday night. Colm worked the two of them to the bone. A drink certainly sounded like the right antidote for a session like this. “I don’t see why not, although I bet Javier will want me to dance with someone.”

“I know he will. His brain’s a steel trap. If it were someone like, I dunno, Sean, I’d be surprised if he remembered your name.”

Charles put his street clothes on. “Hope it’ll be less busy.”

Arthur laughed, stepping into his undergarments. “Yeah, maybe then the bar won’t be so goddamn packed. Then we could have more than two beers.”

Charles grabbed his coat and slung it over his arm, waiting for Arthur.  
  
“Are you a fast dresser, or do I talk too much?” Arthur asked, zipping up his trousers.

“Neither.” He smirked.

“Well, ain’t that good? I was worried about that.” He laughed.  
  


—  
  


As soon as they walked in, Javier spotted Charles. He was on the dance floor with Dottie, spinning her around. “I got a girl who wants to dance with you later!” 

“Let me get a drink first!” Charles called out over the jazz band. He went to the bar and almost immediately got his order. The bar was significantly less busy than last time.

Arthur made his way through the dance floor and back to the table. Sean and Lenny were there, chatting.

“Glad we didn’t scare your friend off last time!” He yelled, his Irish accent thick. It seemed to be more pronounced when he got drunk.

“Please,” Lenny said to Sean, “ _Nothing_ scares Charles. I’ve seen him fight three men at a time and _win_.” 

“You don’t say?” Arthur asked, shrugging off his wool coat.

“He really made a name for himself in St. Denis. I swear, when he’s a different person when he’s in the ring. People around the city called him Mr. Hyde.”

It took Arthur a second to realize what Lenny meant. “I see.” He bit the inside of his mouth, thinking about when he fought him last Monday. He landed some good hits on him, that was for sure, but to think he could fight harder than that was intriguing. 

Charles came back to the table holding two beers. “Since I didn’t get last week,” he explained. 

“Hey, where’s our beers?” Sean asked, feigning annoyance.

“Sorry, Arthur paid for mine last time. Take it up with him.” Charles laughed, sitting next to Arthur. 

Arthur took his drink in kind. “Where’s Marston?” He asked, looking around.

“He ain’t here tonight,” Sean said. “I’m pretty sure Javier said he and Abigail went to a show.”

Arthur laughed. “A _show_? She’s really makin’ a society man out of him, huh?”

“I think it’s nice.” Charles said, taking a drink. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

“Ah, John’s like a zebra paintin’ over its stripes. He can try, but he’ll always be...well, him.”

“How’s training going?” Lenny asked, changing the subject.

Arthur sighed, the residual soreness coming back to him. “I tell ya, Lenny, Colm is a real—”

“It’s Col-um.” Sean leaned forward. “Not _Coal-m_.”

“I’m just sayin’ it how it’s spelled!” Arthur said defensively. 

“And Colm pronounces it that way as well.” Charles interjected.

Sean scoffed. “You Americans, always shittin’ on the Irish for talkin’ funny when really we should be doing the same for you folk!"

Arthur laughed. “You _do_ shit on me for talkin’ funny!”

“Listen, point is, you’re wrong, and _Col-um_ is wrong as well.” Sean finished his drink. “Would ya look at that! You know where to find me.” He said, going back up to the bar.

Lenny watched him go. “ _Anyway_.”

“Yeah, anyway, training’s been real tough.” Arthur shook his head. “I dunno how Charles does it.”

Charles shrugged as a response, taking a swig of his drink.

“How ‘bout you, Lenny?” Arthur asked. “You and Sean been good?”

“I guess so. We fight twins later this week.”

“Twins?”

“Yeah, two uppity fellers with funny names.” Lenny stroked his chin, trying to think of their names. “Ah, it don’t matter. They probably don’t even scrap well.”

Arthur held up his glass. Lenny clinked his glass against it. “Good luck to you and the pesky Irishman.”

Lenny scoffed. “Thanks Arthur.”

Javier found his way back to the table, with Dottie and another lady at his side. “Charles, I want you to meet Mary-Beth. She’s a real swell girl.”

Charles swallowed a mouthful of beer and held out his hand. They exchanged niceties. She seemed shy, hiding her eyes under her Gibson girl style hair. “Would you fancy a dance, Charles?” She asked, smiling slightly.  
  
“Sure, but I’m not much of a dancer.”

Dottie jumped in. “Ah, that’s okay! Mary-Beth’s always got her nose in a book, so it’s not like she’s been cutting up a rug either.”

Charles stood, holding out his hand. “Lead the way.”

“Charles, _you’re_ supposed to lead!” Dottie rolled her eyes. She and Javier watched them walk past. “And if she starts talking about her books, just spin her around!”

Mary-Beth sighed. “With friends like these, right?”

“I guess so.” They maneuvered their way onto the dance floor. A slower Jazz standard started. “I’ve actually never danced with anyone before.” Charles said, almost feeling ashamed.

“It’s easy,” she placated. “Just put one hand here—” She placed his hand on her waist. “ _No lower_! And the other on my shoulder.”

“And then we just—” He looked around at the other couples dancing. “Sway?”

“Yes, I suppose you could call it that.” 

They started to dance back and forth.

“Have you danced often?” 

“Not as often as I would like, but my mother bought me a dance book that I’ve read cover to cover, so I know all the moves.”

“I think I have to spin you now.” Charles laughed. He spun her around slowly.

“You’re a natural!” She said, smiling. “I really need to come out more often. There’s so many _handsome_ men around here.”

“Yes, there are.” Charles said, keeping his expression neutral. Mary-Beth looked at him with a glint in her eye.

“Your friend is handsome.” She cast her eyes back at the table.

“Who, Javier?”

“No! Well, he _is_ handsome, but he’s Dottie’s. I mean the man you walked in with.”

“Oh, you mean Arthur.”

“Yeah, I always see him in the newspapers, winnin’ all sorts of matches.” She sighed lightly, like a schoolgirl with a crush.

“Do you want me to introduce him to you when this song is over?”

She gasped quietly. “I’d love that. You’d do that for me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Mary-Beth opened her mouth to say something, but shut it a second later. “No reason. That’s very kind of you.”

They danced back and forth, spinning once and a while for the hell of it, until the band played the last note of the song. Charles bowed only after Mary-Beth instructed him to. He led her back to the table, where Arthur was sitting with a different drink. 

“Arthur,” Charles greeted, the noise of the crowd picking up again. “I’d like you to meet Mary-Beth.”

“I heard that earlier,” Arthur said with a smile, holding out his hand. She turned a deep red as she put her hand in his. “How do you do?”

“Fine,” she said. The band started to play another song, something slightly faster than last time.  
  
“She said she wanted to dance with you,” Charles nudged her slightly.

“Well, I don’t—”

“Go _on,_ ya sad sack, dance with the lady!” Sean said.

Arthur reluctantly got up and left his drink behind after taking one last sip. “All right then.”

Charles slipped into the booth as the two of them left to dance. 

“You like her?” Lenny asked. 

“She seems nice.” Charles said noncommittally.

“Aw no, not ‘ _nice_.’” Sean groaned. 

Lenny turned to him. “What’s wrong with ‘nice?’”

“Please,” Sean took a pull from his drink, setting the bottle down roughly on the table. “‘Nice’ is somethin’ you call your ma or grandma, not a fine young lass like that. She don’t set your heart on fire, Charles?”

Charles laughed. “Not everything has to be like that.”

“You wouldn’t poke her then?”

“Sean!” Lenny shoved him.

“What? This is _guy_ talk, it’s fine! She ain’t here to listen! Now Charles, man to man: you wouldn’t take her to bed or nothin’?””

Charles laughed, throwing a cautious look to Lenny. A look that said “save me.” “Probably not?”

“Now was that so hard?” Sean asked, reaching across the table to smack Charles’ forearm. Charles pulled his arm away. “Did ya take anyone home last time? You left pretty suddenly.”

Charles looked at him, tilting his head slightly. The first real conversation with this man and he asked something so personal. “ _No_ . Did _you_?”

Sean scoffed. “Ah, Karen’s got me prick in a vice, metaphorically of course. Soon enough I’ll go home with her.”

“She here tonight?” Charles looked out to the dance floor, mostly to get a glimpse of Arthur and Mary-Beth dancing. They seemed to be having a good time. 

“If she were, I wouldn’t be wastin’ my time here.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You know what I mean. I mean, ain’t you ever had a gal where you’d drop anythin’ to see her?”

“Sure,” Charles lied.

“‘Sides, you could be asking Lenny here the same questions ‘bout Jenny.”

Lenny turned sheepish. “She ain’t here tonight, either.”

“I thought I saw her at the bar.” Sean looked back.

Lenny all but shot up from the table. “You know where to find me!”

After a moment, Sean started to snicker.  
  
“With friends like these,” Charles said, borrowing Mary-Beth’s turn of phrase.

“He can handle it. When he realizes she ain’t there, he’ll get some drinks for us.” Sean polished off his drink. “I tell ya, with all the trouble we go through with women, sometimes I wonder if we even need ‘em.”

Charles took a swig of beer, trying not to smirk. If he only _knew_ —

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Arthur said, no Mary-Beth in sight. 

“Did you scare her off, Morgan?” Sean asked.

“No! She had to powder her nose or somethin’.”

“You enjoy the dance?” Charles asked. 

“Sure.”

Sean gestured to him and Charles. “We were talking about women ‘fore you got here.”

Arthur laughed. “Oh really? What about?”

“How you never seen too strung around by ‘em, leavin’ the rest of us to suffer alone.”

“I had all that done to me years before, maybe before you were born.”

“I ain’t _that_ young—”

“What I’m sayin’ is that it’s all happened to me. I learned from those mistakes.” Arthur sat back in the booth. “So now I can watch y’all make the same ones.”

Sean wasn’t impressed with his answer. “You should get us another round for that load of shit.”

Arthur laughed. “Fine, fine! Charles, you want another beer?”

“Sure.”

“Lenny might be up there!” Sean called out. “Could you grab him for us?”

Arthur gave a weak salute. 

—

The night continued on well until the early morning. Charles and Arthur had a couple more dances with Mary-Beth. She gave them both a peck on the cheek before departing, waiting for Dottie to follow. Javier watched the two ladies leave, then followed Arthur and Charles back to the table. “Another round, gentlemen?” 

“I dunno, Javier.” Arthur rubbed at his neck. “It’s gettin’ kind of late.”

“Go on home then, old man.” Javier shooed him away. “Charles, how about you?”

Charles made a face as he weighed out his options. “I think I’ll turn in as well.”

Javier seemed disappointed by the decision, especially since Dottie and Mary-Beth were gone, but he nodded. “Until next time then.” 

The two men said their goodbyes to Sean and Lenny, who were certainly more drunk than either of them. They exited in their convoluted way, bundling up in the windy winter weather. “Mary-Beth’s a sweet girl.” Arthur remarked, feeling a little uncomfortable about the silence as they walked. The city was never this empty.

“She is. She’s also quite the dancer.” Charles agreed. “Did Sean ask if you’d sleep with her?”

Arthur laughed, mostly confused. “What?”

“He asked me, for some reason.”

“I tell ya, that kid is only focused on gettin’ his prick wet when he drinks.” He scoffed. “Pardon my French.”

Charles laughed, a huff of condensation coming out of his mouth. “You’re pardoned.”

“I swear, when I was his age, I don’t think I was as nearly focused on that as he was.”

Charles shrugged. “Everyone’s drive is different.”

“I guess.” Arthur turned up the collar of his wool coat. He foolishly forgot to wear a scarf. “Lenny told me somethin’ about you.”

“He did, huh.” Charles looked down at his shoes. The snow looked fluffy. It wasn’t enough to crunch down under his loafers. He waited, mind racing to figure out his excuse.

“He said you used to fight three men at a time in St. Denis?”

Charles laughed, chest feeling much lighter. “I sure did.”

“Even when I was scrappin’ in my younger days, I never even fought _kids_ like that.” 

“It’s how they do it in St. Denis.” Charles shrugged. “At least for me, they did.”

Arthur rubbed his chin. “Did Colm see you fightin’ ‘em?”

Charles thought back to last year, back when he was in St. Denis.

—

_The alleyway smelled strongly of urine and stale beer. The “ring,” if you could even call it that, was barely ten feet wide. The folks of St. Denis kept crowding in on Charles and his opponents. The sun was beating down on his back. Blood mixed with his sweat. He waited for the bell (or in this case, a bottle clacking with another bottle). They clinked together. Charles got low, fists in front of his face._

_People were yelling various terms at him, very few of them kind. In the ring, there was just as much vitriol. He’d already knocked out one of his opponents; some large bald man he hadn’t seen before. The other two men, one short and the other tall, tried their best to sock him one. Charles swooped back, crowding the onlookers. He felt hands on his back, pushing him back into the ring. He uppercutted the tall one, then jabbed the short one in the stomach. It stunned both of them for a moment, then Charles saw a barrage of fists in his way. He blocked what he could, although he’ll undoubtedly need ice for his forearms later. He bided his time, sucker punching the short man and uppercutting the tall man once more. His two opponents fell in the dirt. Truth be told, Charles was hoping for a tougher match. Most of the crowd whooped, undoubtedly that they placed their bets on him, while some of the crowd jeered and stormed out._

_The makeshift referee announced Charles was the winner. The man raised his hand over his head. Charles beat his breast, blood splattering on his bandaged hands and under his chin. His heart was still racing; he found it hard to catch his breath. For some reason, his eyes focused on the man in the back. He had long stringy hair that framed his sneer. He was being watched by dozens of men, but the way this man was looking at him…it felt different._

_Like he was prey._

_He pulled his thin dress shirt back on, buttoning it up halfway. The announcer handed him his winnings, a paltry twenty dollars, and tucked it into his pocket. He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Quite the workhorse, ain’t ya?” It was the stringy-haired man._

_Charles gave him a look. He felt his hands curl into fists._

_“The name’s Colm O’Driscoll,” he said, holding out his dirty hand. Cautiously, Charles took it._

_“Charles Smith.”_

_“I know who you are.” Colm smirked. His teeth were grey. “I’ve been watching you fight. You’re good.”_

_“I know I am.” Charles said, still kind of cocky from winning._

_Colm wheezed out a laugh. It seemed to be the cherry on top for him. “You got a coach?”_

_Charles scoffed. “Does it look like I have one?”_

_“Do you want one?”_

_Charles gave him a look._

_“I got an opportunity for you.”_

_He raised a brow. “An ‘opportunity?’” He picked up his rucksack, slinging it around his shoulder.  
_ _  
_ _The man looked around at his surroundings. “You feel attached to this city?”_

_Charles shrugged. “It’s convenient, but it’s just a city.”_

_“So you wouldn’t be opposed to moving?”_

_“Depends on where.”_

_“New York City?”_

_Charles laughed. “With what money?”_

_“Let me buy you lunch. I’ll explain it all.” He guided Charles out of the alley.  
  
_

—  
  


“He did. I normally fought some of the toughest men in St. Denis, but rarely three men at a time.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows. “Have you been takin’ it easy on me?”

Charles tucked his chin down, hiding a slight smile. “Maybe a little.”

They walked down the stairs to the subway. “On Friday,” Arthur said, voice echoing against the tiled walls. “Don’t hold back.”

“Okay,” Charles said, unsure.

“You don’t think I can handle you?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” He put his subway card into the ticket taker. “But I’m serious. How else will I be able to know how you fight?”

Charles clicked his tongue. “Fair enough. I’ll ask Colm for a spare tomorrow.” They watched down the tracks, waiting for the train.

“Maybe it’ll be better if we had our practice right there.” Arthur thought.

“It would certainly save me fare.” He muttered. “What time should we meet?”

Arthur shrugged. “Ten?”

“Ten it is.” 

The train screeched as it stopped at the platform.

—

Colm threw a key on the bench as Charles was getting changed. “I’m sure Mr. Morgan has told you all about night trainings?”

“As much as he knows.”

He scoffed. “Ain’t much, then. Anyway, here’s a spare. Don’t lose it.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

Charles grabbed the key slowly. “ _Okay_.”

Colm held his gaze. “If you or Arthur seem to slack in your daily trainings, I’ll be forced to babysit both of you. Got it?”

Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Got it.”

—

Arthur called him that night. “You get a key?”

“Sure did.” Charles was laying on his bed, the receiver propped up on his chest. “I was going to call you, but I realized I didn’t have your number.”

Arthur chuckled. “Sorry, I forgot. I think I was too _loopy_ last time.”

“Are you loopy this time?”

“Nah, I can’t smoke too much. The smell seeps into my clothes, not to mention this apartment. Dutch is suspicious I’m smokin’ again anyway.”

“Shame.” Charles joked.

“It is a shame!”

“Why does Dutch have such a hangup about it?”

“I dunno. It’s not like he’s a saint. He don’t mind if I drink, but if I smoke dope, he makes a real big deal about it.”

Charles thought for a moment, winding the phone cord around his finger. “Does he know you buy it from John?”

There was a long pause on the line. “I don’t know.”

“Could be the reason. Maybe he doesn’t want you to end up like him.”

“You a head shrinker, Charles?”

He laughed. “A _what_?”

“I mean, you study psychology or somethin’?”  
  
“It just seems like it would make the most sense.”

“I swear, Dutch makes me feel like I’m a prized pony sometimes.”

“Oh, just a pony? Why not a stallion?”

Arthur laughed. “Fine, prized _stallion_. Either way, it feels like everything I do has gotta go through him first.”

Charles was surprised by his candor. When he normally talked about Dutch, there was nary a negative word. “Colm doesn’t like that I go out with you.

Arthur scoffed. “Why, is he afraid I’m gonna _corrupt_ you?”

“More like he’s afraid _Dutch_ is gonna corrupt me.” Arthur made a noise over the phone. “What is it?”

“Dutch is worried about the same for me. He’s worried I’m going to sabotage the fight or somethin’.”

Something crossed Charles’ mind. He sat up a little in bed. “Have you ever thrown a fight?”

“Sure. I wanna say it was earlier on in my career. I had to face this guy with a really rich family. His old crone of a mother paid off Dutch and I for her son to win. I prolly won more by losing than I would have if I did win.”

“I started out as kind of a heel. I made so much more money throwing fights.”

“Mm, what changed?”

Charles tugged at a stray thread on his blanket. “I guess I started to tie my self-worth to winning.”

“I sure know how that is. Dutch never lets me forget that.”

Charles felt a pang in his chest as he said that. He certainly could relate, but he didn’t comment on it. “Then I just started winning. I made a lot of enemies.”

“That’s the thing about being the best. People are _always_ after your title.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“I guess I just focus on remaining the best. Training all the time, having Dutch there to keep me in line—”

“Mm, sounds familiar.”

“I mean—what’s the alternative?”

Charles coughed. “I _lived_ the alternative. Throwing fights, getting kicked out of hotels after I overstayed my welcome, squandering away my winnings…”

“Been there, it’s just been a _lot_ longer since that was the case. ‘Round the turn of the century, I s’pose.”

Charles tried not to think of his mother. “Different times,” he said absently.

“Yeah.” He sighed, picking up on Charles’ tone. “When’s your contract up?”

“In about six months.”  
  
“What do you think you’ll do? Re-sign with Colm?”

Charles resisted the urge to groan. “Not if I can help it.”  
  
“Well, dependin’ on how this fight goes, maybe Dutch would be interested in havin’ ya.”

“ _Please_ ,” he spat out. “Colm would kill me before I could even think of going to Dutch.”

“Just thought I would ask,” Arthur said. Charles could tell he was stifling his laughter. “I’ll see ya tomorrow night then?”

“Sure will. Good night.”

“Night.”

Charles arrived at the gym, slightly past ten. He couldn’t find his other shoe, and he all but tore up his apartment trying to look for it. It turned out his shoe was right where he left it: under his coat. He took his time walking to the gym, only to find Arthur was waiting outside.

“Took you long enough!” He said, teeth chattering. “I thought you fell down an elevator shaft, or somethin’.”

Charles gave him a nonplussed look. “I couldn’t find my other shoe.” As he went to the deadbolt of the gym, he gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t think you’d be on time.”

Arthur laughed. “You’re kidding me, right? Dutch is a _stickler_ for me bein’ on time. Every minute I’m late, I have to run another lap.”

Charles unlocked the door. “Sheesh. Not even Colm does that.”

“ _Well_ , because of that, I’m on time. At least to practices anyway.” He checked his watch. “You’d have to run _twelve_ laps if Dutch were here.”

He held the door open for Arthur. “Dutch isn’t here." 

“He sure ain’t.”

Charles fumbled for the light switch. Fluorescent lights clicked and flickered on. Arthur made an impressed noise. “I guess it _is_ like the gym uptown.”

“Told you.” Charles set down his gym bag, digging through it to find his elusive sneakers. “Probably for half the fee.”

“You changin’ out here?”

“Yeah?” Charles asked, putting his gym clothes in a pile on the floor. “No one’s here.” He stood, taking off his coat.

“O-kay then.” He said awkwardly, stripping down to his undergarments. The air felt cold against his bare skin, so he quickly dressed. He looked up as he pulled on his shorts, surprised to see Charles was all dressed. “I think you _are_ quick at getting dressed, Charles.”

“All I had to do was change my pants and shoes.” He said as if it was obvious.

“…Ah.”

“Take your time, I’m going to start warming up.” Charles pointed to the track.

Arthur didn’t take his time and slipped on his shoes without untying the laces. He jogged over, trying to catch up with Charles. Charles glanced behind him, then ran faster. “You a cardio man?” Arthur called out, watching the distance between them widen.

“More than you, it seems!” Charles laughed.

Arthur picked up the pace. “I can if I want to be!” He passed Charles, but only for a brief moment. It was a neck and neck race.

They raced around the track. Arthur couldn’t help but be reminded of when he was a child running back to the house as his mother rang the dinner bell.

Eventually, Arthur lost steam. He stopped, arms wind milling to help him slow down. Charles continued until the start line, just to show he was faster than Arthur.

“It weren’t for a medal, you know!” Arthur huffed.

“I know!” Charles caught his breath. He looked less winded and sweaty than Arthur. “Maybe you should stop smoking so much dope.”

“I’m more of a sprinter anyway.” He coughed. “And ‘sides, what’s the fun in that?”

Stretching his arms overhead, Charles walked to the ring. “Should we start?”

“Lemme get a drink of water, hold on.” Arthur lifted up his shirt to wipe the sweat forming on his forehead. As Arthur took a couple gulps from the water fountain (the water uptown tasted _much_ better), Charles climbed up to the ring, resting his hands on the ropes. 

Arthur walked back over to the ropes, winding his arms around as he walked. 

“How’s your footwork?”

Charles was on the other side of the mat, stretching. “You’ve seen me fight before.”

“Yeah, but I was kinda busy with tryin’ to avoid your punches.” Arthur climbed into the ring.

“I’ll tell you my footwork is quicker than yours.” He looked up at Arthur with a smirk. 

“You getting cocky with me, Smith?”

He laughed. “Is it being cocky if I’m right?”

“ _Oh_ ,” Arthur chuckled, “you’re temptin’ me real hard _not_ to pull my punches.”

Standing, he swayed back and forth in a fighting stance. He tied his long hair up into a ponytail. “I’d like to see you try.”

“All right, Lone Wolf, let’s do this.” Arthur got into his stance as well, opposite footing as Charles. 

They didn’t count off. Arthur hustled toward him, keeping his body low. Charles stayed in his corner. Arthur swung, but Charles managed to dip and miss the swing. He could feel the air move past his face as he crouched. He kept dodging Arthur’s swings, Arthur getting more and more annoyed at each miss.

“Sorry, _Pretty Boy_ , should I slow down for you?” Charles asked, feeling confident. He stopped moving around as much, planting his feet where he stood. This only made Arthur _more_ irritated. He kept swinging, and Charles kept dodging. Arthur finally landed a hit, a simple jab, at his side. Charles grunted at the hit; neither of them were wearing gloves. Now all bets were off. Charles took a step behind Arthur’s right foot, his heel pressing against Arthur’s. He laid an uppercut, knuckles connecting harshly against Arthur’s chin. The impact knocked Arthur back, falling down to the mat. Charles didn’t factor in Arthur pulling him down with him by his shirt.

Charles braced himself on either side of Arthur’s shoulders when he landed, propping his body up above Arthur. He looked up at Charles, his locks of hair in front of his face, panting, sweating slightly. And Charles had the _audacity_ to smirk at him.

Arthur’s throat got dry, his eyes wide. As he tried _very hard_ to compartmentalize this moment, he crawled out from under the other man. “I think that’s enough for tonight.” He said awkwardly.

“We just started!” Charles called out from the mat, still on his knees. He was a little disappointed it was ending so soon.

“Yeah, but—” He struggled to find the words as he tossed his things into his gym bag. “I—I gotta ice my chin. You really got me there, you know.”

“…Okay. See you Monday, then.” Charles waved goodbye. As he watched Arthur hustle out of the gym, coat half on, hands still wrapped, he thought about his expression when he was under him. 

He _knew_ what that expression was. The realization of feelings, either new or latent, coming to the surface. He sat back down on the mat, letting himself slip into the memory of when he first experienced the confusion. 

\--

_Charles’ feet were starting to hurt in his boots._

_Not from walking; he’s used to walking. His feet had grown, suddenly hitting a growth spurt something awful. He was running out of money from spending it on clothing and food. Now his feet had caught up with the rest of him. His toes were practically splitting through the seams of the leather._

_He walked down the dirt road, in a town he forgot the name of. It felt like he walked down the same stretch for miles. Maybe he had. There was a farmhouse coming up. The property seemed modest, nicely built and maintained. The crops were growing tall, even taller than Charles. It was worth a risk to ask._

_He tucked his shaggy hair behind his ears, attempting to brush it with his fingers. Straightening his shirt and trying to wipe the dust off his pants, he went up the steps of the farm house. He stood up straight and knocked on the door._

_A man, dressed in overalls and a tan thermal shirt, opened the door. “Can I help you?” He asked, still chewing his food._

_“I—” He started nervously. He looked over the man’s shoulder, seeing his family at the dinner table. His wife, her hair in a bun, a young girl, and a boy around his age were looking back at him. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I noticed that your crops were pretty tall. And, and I was wondering if you needed any help for—”_

_“How old are you, son?” The man asked, looking at his disheveled appearance._

_“Fourteen, sir.”_

_“Where’s your family?”_

_Instead of going into a long history of the displacement of his tribe and the death of his mother, he said, “I don’t have a family.”_

_The man sighed. Taking pity on Charles, he let him inside. “You like meatloaf?”_

_He tentatively stepped inside. “Never had it before.”_

_“Mary,” the man called out, “fix up a plate for the boy, will ya?”_

_The woman, seeming a little more unsure of Charles, got up to go to the kitchen._

_“The name’s Abe Johnson.” He pointed at his family. “Mary’s out in the kitchen, obviously. And there’s Isaiah, and the little one, Mabel.” He held out his hand._

_“Oh, Charles.” He said, shaking Abe’s hand._

_“Nice grip you got there. You done farm work before?”_

_“Not exactly, but I’ve done plenty of hard labor.”_

_“Good, maybe you can teach my boy Isaiah there how to put in work.”_

_Isaiah scoffed. “I do plenty of work, pa!”_

_Mary got a plate of food for him, certainly more than enough for him (even_ with _his teenage appetite). Abe pulled up a chair for him._

_“Put your bag near the couch. Sit, stay for a while.”_

_After getting over the initial strangeness of the situation, Charles felt comfortable with the Johnsons. Mary warmed up to him, and he and Isaiah became fast friends._

_When dinner was up, Abe looked at Charles. “I expect you to be up at 5:30 tomorrow, you got that?”_

_Charles nodded. “Yes sir.”_

_“Good. You’ll stay in Isaiah’s room. He’ll show you where the washroom is as well.”_

_“Thank you.” Charles said. He followed Isaiah around the house._

_“We don’t get a lot of visitors around here. I don’t think pa has ever had summer help.”_

_“I won’t let him down.” Charles said, placing his things in Isaiah’s sparse room._

_“Ah, don’t worry. Pa’s a fair man. We’ll be workin’ side by side, it sounds like.”_

_Over the course of the summer, Abe proved that to be true. Charles worked hard, but so did Isaiah. They worked until midday, then had lunch, then a few hours in the afternoon. Then there were nights where he and Isaiah would stay up late talking, practically until they had to wake up. Charles liked Isaiah, with his curly auburn hair and freckles. Sometimes when he looked at him, Charles would feel a strange ache in his chest. He didn’t have time to dwell on it; there was always something to do on the farm._

_Leaves started to fall. Crops were starting to die off. Charles felt a pang of sadness as he watched the season change with each day. He told the Johnsons he’d be leaving in the morning. They were sad, but they understood. Isaiah asked Abe if he could take Charles into town that night. “We won’t be gone long, I just want to show him The Hill!”_

_“’The Hill?’” Charles asked. He’d talked to Isaiah about everything, but he’d never heard of The Hill._

_“I think that’s a wonderful idea.” Mary smiled. “Abe, let them take the cart.”_

 _Abe thought for a moment before saying, “All right, but make sure to watch that back wheel. Don’t go joy riding.”_

_Isaiah rolled his eyes. “All right, pa.”_

_After a traditional meat and potatoes dinner, the two boys went to The Hill. It was, well, a hill. Charles saw the entirety of the town from The Hill, and then some. “Wow,” he said, standing up on the cart._

_“It’s the best view in the whole county.” Isaiah said proudly, as if he were the one that made The Hill._

_“It sure is.” Charles said, sitting back down. The two sat on the cart, looking out at the town. The people down there looked like ants._

_Charles could feel Isaiah’s eyes on him. He looked, and the boy placed a quick peck on his lips. He froze, not even having any time to kiss back. “What do I do?”_

_Isaiah laughed. “You’ve never kissed anyone before?”_

_“Not a boy!” He said, still shocked._

_Isaiah laughed, his voice cracking as he did. “I guess it’s the same as how you kiss a girl!”_

_“…Oh!” Charles said, cheeks warm. He planted an even quicker kiss on the boy’s lips. His heart was pounding in his chest. The two of them laughed, feeling light._

_They didn’t talk about their kiss on The Hill, even when they got back home. However, Charles couldn’t stop_ thinking _about it. He stared at the ceiling as he heard Isaiah sleep soundly. If only he could be as content with himself as Isaiah was._

_He said goodbye to the Johnsons early the next morning. They all gave him hugs, with Isaiah giving him the longest hug. “You’re welcome here any time.” Abe smiled, patting him on the shoulder. And he meant it._

_Charles waved goodbye, walking a little taller in new boots._

_\--_

Although he didn’t keep in contact with the family, especially after earning money for fights, he always had a fondness for that summer. He sighed, slightly, wondering what Isaiah was up to nowadays. He hoped he was happy. Maybe he could write a letter to him, if only he knew his address. 

Charles slipped off the mat. It was probably time to go home. He was mostly thankful he was going to have a peaceful night, compared to his opponent. He wondered what Arthur was feeling as he locked up the gym. All he could do was laugh. 

\--

Arthur _needed_ to get home. He ran to his apartment, his legs turning red from the cold. He fumbled with the key in the lock, struggling to open his door. Out of all the times to have an issue with the lock sticking, why did it have to be _now—_

He gave it a shove, the door finally opening. Not a moment too soon. He couldn’t stop thinking about how Charles looked tonight, not even thinking about how he braced himself over Arthur. He tore off his coat, staggering to his bedroom. It was only when he was on his bed, catching his breath, that he realized his hands were still wrapped. He scoffed, tearing off the wrapping.

Kicking off his shoes, he tried to get more comfortable. He shut his eyes. All he saw was Charles. Charles stretching, Charles tying up his hair, Charles getting cocky with his boxing maneuvers, Charles falling on top of him...Charles kissing him… 

He got his hand on him, too hard to focus on changing his fantasy. The last time he did this, he thought of Mary. What good that did his mood the next day, the shame weighing down on him like a brick. 

He spat into his hand, eyes half-lidded as he stroked himself off. He knew he had a one-track mind, Dutch told him enough, but especially _now_ it was true. Visions of Charles flashed through his head. All the times he’d seen him but never paid attention. He thought of Charles giving Arthur attention, encouraging him as he stroked.

He came with a sputtering gasp, louder than he normally was.

Almost as soon as he was done shaking, the guilt weighed on him. 

“... _Fuck_.” He panted. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: depictions of child abuse near the end, homophobia
> 
> take warning! thank you! :)

After the night practice, Arthur pulled away from talking to Charles.

Not _entirely_ , but enough that his heart wouldn’t race every time he saw him. It almost hurt to look at him sometimes, which is pretty difficult when you’re fighting someone. Dutch noticed his slacking and reluctance in his moves, deciding to chaperone for night lessons. In a way, Arthur was grateful. It helped keep him focused, even if Dutch passively watched the two of them go through the motions and the practice drills. 

On Wednesday, Charles asked, “You going out tonight?”

“What?” 

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Oh, right.” He said distantly. “I uh, I don’t think I’ll be able to.”

“I see.” Charles said neutrally. Despite his measured tone, Arthur could tell he was a little disappointed.

“You can still go. I don’t gotta be there.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” Arthur stepped into his slacks. “Be my guest.”  
  
Charles slung his gym bag around his shoulder. “I’ll send them your regards.”

He smiled slightly. “Thanks. See you Friday.” 

Charles waved as he left.

—

Lenny was the first to hear about Charles’ situation in its entirety. Charles filled him in while Sean and Javier were on the dance floor. John was out again, seeing another play. “That don’t sound like Arthur.”

“Okay, so it’s not just me.”

“I mean, _nothing_ shakes him, it seems. He’s as solid as stone.”

“Mm.” Charles sipped his drink. “I don’t think he’s—” He paused, finding the right term. “Like _that_ , is he?”

Lenny picked up on what he was saying. “I don’t even know if he’s into _anyone_. At least, not as long as I’ve been friends with him.”

“I’ve heard talks of a girl he used to date—”

“ _Mary_.” Lenny shook his head. “Right.”

“The one that got away?”

Lenny laughed. “Something like that.” He checked his watch. “I gotta go, Jenny said she’d be here by now—”

Charles motioned to the dance floor. “Go on ahead.”

“You’re going to be all right?”

“I’ll be _fine_. I guess it’s Arthur I’m worried about.”

“Ah, he’ll manage. He always does.” Lenny caught sight of Mary-Beth on the dance floor. “That one girl you danced with is here.”

“I’ll be out, let me finish my drink.” He toasted Lenny, who seemed to have caught sight of Jenny. 

“Jenny! Over here!”

Charles gulped down the rest of his drink and went out to find Mary-Beth. The last thing he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts.

“Charles, hello!” She greeted. “Arthur isn’t here tonight?”

“I’m afraid he’s under the weather.” Charles took her hand in his. 

“At least I have a dancing partner tonight.” She smiled softly. “How good are you at dipping me?”

Charles gave her a spin. “Let me warm up first.”

—

Saturday night rolled around. Arthur couldn’t sleep.

He’d been having a hard time trying to free his mind. He smoked a joint that night, but it still wasn’t enough to calm his nerves. He paced around his apartment, thinking only about Charles. He bit his fingernails to the bone. 

Eventually, he wore himself out from worrying. He ended up falling asleep on his couch, the cool air blowing through the window as he drifted off.

He’d been avoiding sleep, probably subconsciously. 

With sleep, came dreams. 

Terrible, terrible dreams.

—

_The lights above him were blinding. Covering his face as the referee slammed his hand on the mat, he shook with the slight vibrations. The crowd was deafening._

_“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer called out, “The new heavyweight champion of 1925...”_

_The referee grabbed Arthur’s glove, pulling him up to his feet. Grabbing Charles’ glove as well, he raised his arm in the air._

_“Charles Smith!”_

_The crowd cheered in a raucous applause. There must have been thousands of people pushed into this stadium._

_Arthur turned to sneak off the stage. He felt someone grab his arm. It was Charles._

_“Wait, Arthur.” He said softly, able to be heard over the cacophony of the spectators. “Stay here.”_

_“Why?” Arthur asked, voice too loud. “You’re the winner here.”_

_Charles smiled, his face too beautiful and too clean to have possibly been through a boxing match. He pulled Arthur close, kissing him with an intensity that Arthur hadn’t felt in a long time._

_Arthur tore off his gloves, putting his bandaged hands on either side of Charles’ face. Was he crying? Was it sweat? He didn’t dare open his eyes to find out._

_The crowd swarmed the ring, eventually they were pushing and shoving against the two of them, trying to break them up. It wasn’t until a rough hand all but pulled Arthur back by the scruff of his neck. He opened his eyes. Lyle Morgan was staring back at him, his scarred face pulled into a sneer._

_“I fucking knew it,” he spat. His nails dug into Arthur’s skin. He dragged him over to the ropes. “Nothing but a disappointment.”_

_Before Arthur could get a word in, Lyle shoved him backwards. He fell over the ropes, down into the abyss._

—

Arthur blinked. He was at the press conference, dressed in a suit perfectly tailored for him. He wasn’t sure how he got here. Dutch nudged him. “Answer the question, son.”

Arthur looked out at the sea of bright lights and flashbulbs. “Sorry,” he said, regaining his composure. “What was the question?”

The reporter, in his fedora, asked, “Now Mr. Morgan, it seems that you and Mr. Smith have an excellent rapport in your training and practices. Will it be difficult facing off with him?”

Arthur looked over at Charles, who was looking dapper in a grey flannel suit, the sides of his hair tied back. Charles gave him a slight smile, one that only Arthur could even realize was a smile.

“I think with our friendship, our match will only be more excitin’. It’s getting to the point where I know his moves, and he knows mine.”

There was an eruption of overlapping questions. Dutch served as moderator. “You, over there!”

A portly man stood, notepad in hand. “Mr. Van der Linde, how do you feel about facing off with Mr. O’Driscoll again?”

Dutch feigned laughter. “It’s great. Like old times.”

Colm stared daggers at Dutch.

“Mr. O’Driscoll, is it the same feeling for you?”

“Yeah,” he said, not sounding at all happy. “We’re old friends.” He folded his hands and leaned forward on the table. “Although this isn’t about me and Dutch. It’s about _new_ talent.” He gestured to Charles, sitting next to him. “And _old_ talent.” He looked over to Arthur and Dutch.

“Mr. Morgan, Mr. Smith is still new to the world of professional boxing. Do you have words of advice for him?”

Arthur turned slightly in his chair, looking over at Charles. He had the same smirk on his face as he did last week. “Good luck,” he said, putting on his Pretty Boy persona.

“Mr. Smith, same sentiment?”

Charles leaned forward to the microphone, looking out at the bright lights. “I’m not the one who needs luck.”

A flurry of reporters shot up for the next question with an explosion of accompanying camera clicks and flashes, but a representative of the stadium calmed them down. “Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please! There will be plenty of time for questions after the match. Now—” he turned around, gesturing to the men behind the table. “Let us take some pictures.” Arthur and Charles stood in the middle of the stage with their respective coaches at their sides. The press photographers directed them to look where they were shooting.

“Okay, now just the two boxers!” One directed. Colm and Dutch stepped off to the side. “Face each other, gentlemen!”

At first, they stood a good arm’s length from each other. “No, no!” Someone shouted. “Closer!”

Arthur hid his discomfort as he stepped closer to Charles. Even though they were the same height, Arthur tilted his head back to look down at him.

Charles stepped closer, looking up at him, jaw clenched. They were toe to toe. The cameras were flashing even more. “You love this, don’t you?” He asked, keeping his face stern.

“No more than you do,” Arthur smirked, heart pounding in his ears.

“Do a fun pose, gentlemen!” A photographer yelled.

Arthur did his standard pose, placing his fist under Charles’ chin. Charles turned his head out to the swarm of cameras, still keeping an eye on Arthur. The photographers ate it up.

“Mr. Smith, now it’s your turn!”

Charles waited for Arthur to put his hand down, then he gently put his hand around his neck. He pulled his fist back as if he was about to punch Arthur. They played for the cameras, although Charles felt Arthur’s heartbeat under his fingers.

“All right, bring the coaches back in!” Another called out. “Two and two, c’mon—”

They stepped away from each other as Colm and Dutch returned back on the stage. “Don’t worry son,” Dutch patted Arthur on the back, “I know you hate this. It’ll be over soon.”

“Not soon enough,” Arthur muttered over the clicks of the cameras.

—

Arthur loosened his tie. “I swear, I’ll never goddamn get used to that.”

“I’m just glad you don’t have epilepsy.” Dutch said as he motioned for the waitress. “You know what you want?” 

“I’ll figure it out when she gets here. You order first.” 

The waitress, a young woman with curly hair, walked over a moment later. Dutch placed his order—his usual, a Salisbury steak—and looked over at Arthur. Not deciding in time, he chose the club sandwich on a whim. She smiled, taking both of their menus and going off to the fry cook.

Dutch watched her walk away. “She’s cute.”

Arthur clicked his tongue. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just saying, you’ve been strange lately. I think you need to—” He leaned forward, speaking quieter. “Release some tension.”

“Jesus, Dutch—” Arthur groaned, “I can handle that myself. And ‘sides, it ain’t been that.”

“Oh? You got a main squeeze?”

“No, and I don’t mean it like that.”

“Well, you’ve been odd lately. I just thought it was that.”

“Yeah, an’ when the hell was the last time that was the issue?”

The two men stopped bickering as the waitress gave them both cups of water. They politely nodded and waited for her to leave.

Dutch cleared his throat and folded his hands. “You going to tell me what’s going on, besides your ongoing absurd celibacy?”

Arthur glared at him, then his expression softened. He looked down at his split fingers. “I dunno what it is, Dutch. I—I wish I knew.”

“You nervous about the match?” He asked in a slightly lighter tone. 

“I don’t even know if it’s even about the match. Like it’s—” he gestured to his chest. “It’s something deeper?”

Dutch was at a loss. “I wish I could help you, son.”

“I know.” He chewed at his lip. 

They were silent for the rest of the meal, mostly on Arthur’s behalf.

—

Arthur and Dutch bundled up as they stood from the booth. “You got plans?” Dutch asked, sounding more conversational than confrontational. 

“Dunno. Might visit John. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him.”

“Mm.” Dutch didn’t seem to like that idea. “I see.”

“What?”

Dutch sighed. “Nothing. Nothing at all, son. Remember, practice tomorrow is—”

“I _know_. Nine a.m.”

Clapping him on the shoulder, Dutch grabbed the door and braced himself for the cold air outside. “Be safe, Arthur.”

“Yeah,” Arthur scoffed. “You too.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, coins jingling. It was _probably_ enough to call John. He wasn’t especially a conversationalist. Just around the corner of the diner was a dingy payphone. Arthur put in a quarter and called John. After a single dial tone, someone picked up.

“Marston residence,” A small child greeted, trying hard to sound grown up.  
  
Arthur laughed. “Hi Jack, is your dad in?”

“Uncle Arthur!” Jack gasped. He heard commotion over the line. After some fumbling, John took the phone from his son. 

“Arthur, you okay?”

“If I weren’t, I wouldn’t be calling.” Arthur looked out the phone booth. The glass was too frosted over to make out any details outside. “You mind if I stopped over?”

“Why, do you need—” John pressed his mouth to the receiver. “Some more stuff?”

“Nah, nothing like that. Just got some free time in my schedule.”

“Sure, I’ll let Abigail know.”

“Great, be there in a few.”

“A few? How close are you?”

“I’m at the diner that Dutch likes.” 

John made a noise like he understood. “Got it. See you in a few.”

He hung up before Arthur said goodbye.

—

“Uncle Arthur!” Jack said as he ran to the front door. He tried to get on his tippy toes to open the door, but he wasn’t tall enough for that just yet. “Papa, Arthur’s here!”

“I heard ya, Jack.” John laughed. He unlocked the door, and as soon as he opened it, Jack pressed his body in the opening to give Arthur a hug.

“Hi Jack,” Arthur chuckled, picking the boy up and giving him a hug. “Have you gotten heavier since I last saw you?”

“Um, maybe?”

“Jack, let Uncle Arthur come through,” Abigail called out. She was wearing an apron. There was a faint smell of basil drifting from the kitchen. “Hello Arthur.” She smiled, peeking from the kitchen. “I’ll be done in just a moment!”

“Take your time, Abigail.” Arthur nodded. Arthur set down Jack and took off his coat.

“Shit,” John laughed, looking at Arthur’s suit. “I feel a little underdressed.”

Arthur looked down at his outfit. “Ah, I had to meet the press this mornin’.”

“ _Hated_ those. All those damn flashing lights.” John shook his head. “I certainly don’t envy ya.” John went to sit in the beaten up rocking chair. It was probably a gift from Abigail’s parents. “Have a seat, stay for a while.”

Arthur sat down on the couch, Jack running to sit next to him. “Missed you last Wednesday.”

“Sorry ‘bout that, Abigail and I got tickets to see—” John craned his head to the kitchen area. “What did we see?” 

“I think it was called ‘Sham?’” Abigail asked. 

“Right, right, _Sham_. Gotta say, it wasn’t bad.”

Arthur laughed. “John Marston, a man of culture.”

John seemed bashful. “I know, it’s hard to believe. Weren’t that long ago I was getting my face beaten in while Dutch screamed orders at me. Although I’m sure I don’t gotta remind you of that.”

Arthur’s expression turned pensive. “No, ya don’t.” After a pause, he said, “My match is next Saturday.”

“And how you feelin’ ‘bout that?” 

Arthur tried not to think of what happened in the ring, with Charles panting over him. He tried not to think of the nightmare last night. He tried not to think of Charles’ cocksure attitude as they posed for pictures. His hands felt twitchy. He turned them into fists, then relaxed them. “Not great.”

John seemed surprised by that. “You’re tellin’ me you’re afraid of this Charles guy? When I met him, he seemed friendly!”

“John, I heard from Lenny he used to fight three men at a time down in St. Denis.”

“Shit, really?”

“Lenny ain’t one to lie.”

“I know, I know, but—surely you’re stronger than three men!”

Arthur laughed nervously. John wouldn’t have given these words of encouragement even a few years ago. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Don’t mention it,” He laughed, then said. “I’m serious, _don’t_ mention it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Arthur rubbed his rough hands together. 

“I know he’s strong an’ all, but you’re afraid of some guy Colm picked up in St. Denis?”

“It ain’t exactly that. I’m more afraid of—” The words, the real reasons why he was nervous, jumbled up in his throat. He swallowed. “I just hate waitin’. I’ve been training with him for so long—”

“You afraid you’re gonna blow it? You’ve fought friends before!”

 _But it wasn’t like_ this _,_ Arthur didn’t say.

“Maybe I’m just gettin’ too old for this, John.” Arthur deflected.

Abigail entered the room, untying her apron. “What’s going on?” She asked. 

“Arthur’s nervous about his match next Saturday.”

Abigail made a surprised sound. “In all my years of knowin’ you, Arthur, I’ve never once seen you so nervous and scared.”

“I ain’t _scared_.”

“Arthur, you’re among family, you can admit it.”

He cleared his throat. “I—”

“Uncle Arthur?” Jack asked, tugging at Arthur’s suit. “Can you read me a story?”

“Not now, Jack.” John said sternly.

“Lemme read the boy a story, John.” He said, more than happy to even dare admit his fears. Jack jumped off the couch and ran to his room.

“No running!” Abigail scolded. “The downstairs neighbors don’t like it!” 

“Sorry, mama!” Jack said, walking back with a stack of books in his hands. “Can you read one of these? I picked all of my books.”

Arthur looked at the titles, deciding on the shortest book. “How ‘bout _Casey At The Bat_?”

“That one is sad!”

“C’mon, it’s a classic.” John chimed in.

“Okay,” Jack sighed. Arthur patted his knee. He climbed on the couch and sat in Arthur’s lap. 

He read _Casey at the Bat_ in a rousing rendition. It seemed his performance won Jack over.

“‘But there was no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.’” Arthur ended somberly. Jack seemed downtrodden.

“Why couldn’t he get a home run?”

Arthur shrugged, setting the book beside him. “Some things ain’t meant to be, I guess.”

Jack, still being a child, wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “That’s stupid.”

“ _Jack_ ,” Abigail warned. “Thank Uncle Arthur for reading you a story.”

“Thank you.” 

John looked at the clock. “Go get washed up, Jack. It’s almost dinner.”

Arthur picked up Jack and set him down on the floor. He ran off to the bathroom. Arthur looked back over at the book. “Guess I am nervous.” He muttered, laughing slightly.

“Now was that so hard?” Abigail smiled. “You staying for dinner?”

“Nah, that diner food filled me up.” Arthur patted his stomach for emphasis. “I should probably get goin’—”

“No, stay for a while!” John said. “We hardly get to see ya.”

“Okay,” Arthur smiled, not putting up much of a fight. “I’ll sit at the table while y’all have dinner.”

—

Charles and Colm rode the subway home. 

His feet were hurting in his loafers. As most of the people shuffled out, Charles motioned to sit down. 

“Ah—ah,” Colm stopped him. “Need to get a deposit back on that suit. Don’t know what’s on these seats.”

Charles sighed, but hoisted himself back up anyway. He leaned against the door to counteract the pain in his feet.  
  
“How was your first real press conference?” Colm asked, leaning against the door as well.

Charles shrugged. He’d heard plenty of interviews and press meetings with other boxers, so it wasn’t too far outside of his expectations. “It was all right, I guess.”

“Yeah, except for Dutch showboating and grandstanding like he always does.” Colm spat. “Pretty Boy seemed distracted.

Charles felt a tightness in his chest. He glanced over at Colm. “You think so?” 

“Sure, missin’ questions, zoning out, gettin’ all stiff for the pictures.” Colm shook his head. “You would think that lug was the newcomer.”

“Yeah,” Charles said absently, eyes fixed out the window.

“You don’t have anything to do with this distraction, do you?”

After a split second of fear, Charles laughed. “I think he’s lost his touch.”

Colm snickered as well, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just like his coach.”

Charles’ laughter died quickly, mind drifting back to Arthur heart pounding under his fingertips.

—

Dinner at John’s turned to drinks and cards. Jack was in bed, after a half hour of trying to debate his parents to stay up longer. Arthur hopped in, seeing the weariness on John and Abigail’s faces, and offered to tuck him in. When he came back out, John was pouring two fingers worth of whiskey as Abigail shuffled cards.

“Just one game.” Arthur laughed. “I swear.”

“You say that _every_ time.” John slid a drink across the dining room table. “You up for euchre?”

He took a sip of the drink, exhaling at the burn. “Always ready for some euchre.”

One game turned to three. One drink turned to four. 

Arthur checked his pocket watch. It was almost midnight. “Shit, I really need to get home.” He downed his drink, coughing at the burn. “I’m training with Dutch at nine tomorrow.”

“Oh, come on!” Abigail whined. “Just one more game!”

“Sorry, I really gotta get home.” Arthur stood, a little uneasy in his footing. “Another time.”

“You need me to escort you back?”

Arthur laughed. “I think I can fend for myself.” He grabbed his coat, buttoning it up. “Will you be at the match? I can comp you a couple of tickets.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Abigail said, grabbing the empty drink glasses. “Good night, Arthur.”

“Nighty night,” he said with a giggle. Christ, he was more tipsy than he thought. Maybe he should have gotten something to eat. He made a note to stop at the bodega near his apartment on his way back.

—

Charles kicked off his shoes as soon as he got through the door. He undressed out of his rental suit, putting it back in the garment bag, then started up his bathtub. As the water filled up, he checked his bruises. Training had been easier due to Colm being a strict believer in tapering before a match. He hadn’t fought Arthur since their night practice.

Either Dutch was building up aggression in Arthur or the man was doing that all his own. Hard to say.

He couldn’t forget the way he looked that night. Panting, scared, desperately trying to avoid thinking about the implications of it all. 

As Charles stepped into the hot tub, he understood. He was like that, just having the benefit of coming to terms with those feelings more than sixteen years ago. In a way, he pitied Arthur for not figuring it out sooner.

But he had to figure it out eventually.

—

Arthur sobered up enough by the time an egg sandwich was in his stomach. It soaked up most of the alcohol. He chugged a glass of water when he got home.

As he got ready for bed, mostly by stripping down into his underwear and brushing his teeth, he looked at his bed with a sinking feeling in his stomach. He’d been going all day, not quite able to breach the subject of his previous dream. Maybe he didn’t want to. It was too much to face, especially going on his light sleep schedule. “I’m gonna have a good night. I will.” He said, almost like a mantra. For a while, Dutch was into meditation and mantras. The meditation never soothed Arthur, but he found himself saying phrases over and over when no one was around. It helped him keep his head above water, so to speak. 

As he slipped into bed, he said, “I’m gonna have a good night. I will.” 

Sleep covered him like an all-too-warm blanket.

—

_Arthur felt Charles’ hands roaming over his body._

_“You like that?” Charles asked, hands sinking lower past his stomach. He gripped Arthur’s cock, stroking him quickly._ _  
__  
__“Ah, yes—” Arthur gasped, pulling Charles back into a kiss. He moaned into his mouth. Charles’ mouth moved down Arthur’s torso, planting kisses down until he got to the wiry pubic hair. He kissed from the base of his cock, then enveloped him with his mouth._

_Arthur gasped for air. He rested a hand on Charles’ shoulder, guiding him up and down. Charles’ hand found Arthur’s other hand. They interlocked their fingers as Charles sucked him off. Arthur ran his hands through Charles’ hair, like pulling a curtain aside to see. What a sight it was._

_“Is this okay?” Charles asked, coming up for air._ _  
__  
__Arthur laughed, also catching his breath. He swiped a thumb over Charles’ bottom lip, catching the saliva. “Yes, yeah, yes.” He babbled._

_Arthur rested his head against the rickety bed. His hands gripped at his great-grandmother’s quilt as Charles planted kisses at his thighs. “Just wanted to check.”_

_He looked over at the oil lamp, lit at the lowest possible setting. Charles’ weight on him was light, like a blanket. His fingers traced the drawing of the handsome man, a watercolor insert he stole from his mother’s magazine. It fell out earlier that day, when she was reading in her rocking chair and Arthur was doing his chores. He was transfixed by the man’s heavy brow, the strong jawline, the intricately drawn physique in a suit. It was hard to explain how he felt; it just made him feel_ funny _inside._

_The door swung open. “Goddamn kid leaving the light on—” Heavy footsteps walked over. Arthur pulled the blanket over his head, curling up into a ball. “What are you doing, boy?” He asked._

_“Nothing,” Arthur said, his high pitched voice muffled by the blanket._

_“Don’t look like nothin’—” He tugged the blanket back. Arthur covered the drawing with his body. “Move!” He yelled._

_Shaking, Arthur sidled over on the hay mattress. His father grabbed the drawing. He looked at the drawing, then back at Arthur._

_“I was just lookin’ at it, sir.” Arthur trembled._

_Lyle took a swig of his beer, then tossed the drawing into the corner. “My only child—my only_ son— _is a goddamn fairy.” He shook his head in shame._

_“I’m not, I wasn’t doin’—”_

_“I should’ve known you were, you were always afraid of girls—”_

_“I like girls! I do, I swear!”_

_He broke his bottle against the wall. “Stop fucking lying to me!”_

_“I’m not—” He said as his father swung across his face with the broken bottle. He felt a searing hot pain across his chin. His jaw felt warm. He placed his little hand over his chin. His fingers felt around the deep gash, blood seeping down his hand. Tears were falling onto his sheets._

_“For as long as I live,” his father grumbled, “I ain’t raisin’ no goddamn limp-wristed fairy. You got that?!”_

_All Arthur could do was nod. He bit down on his lip to keep from whimpering._

_“Good.” He stood, gesturing to his bed. “Clean this up, you made a mess.” His heavy footsteps walked to the door, closing it with a slam._

—

Arthur jolted awake.

He pulled back his sheets, hands rubbing over his chin. All he felt was the raised scar, long since healed. He didn’t feel any blood, only sweat forming at the collar of his t-shirt. He breathed shallowly, kicking the blankets off the bed.

He remembered his mother stitching him up, asking him, “What happened?” in a concerned tone. 

“He fell off the bed.” His father growled, tugging on his boots to go out hunting.

“Arthur, is that true?”

All Arthur could do was nod.

That was such a long time ago. He couldn’t have been more than eleven...

The dream was all so real. He could feel the same pain he felt when his father sliced his chin open.

And…

And he could feel Charles’ locks of hair brushing his stomach as he went down on him.

He rubbed his eyes until he saw stars. If only he could separate the two dreams instead of forming a horrifying ouroboros.

He grabbed the telephone off the bedside table without thinking.

—

_Ring._

Charles stirred slightly in his sleep. It was probably someone else’s phone.

_Ring._

Okay, it’s probably a wrong number. They’ll stop calling.

_Ring._

His neighbor banged on the wall, finally causing him to fumble for his phone in the dark. Still half (or more than half) asleep, he answered. “…Hello?”

“Can I come over?”

It took a few seconds to realize who it was. “What…time is it?” He squinted at the clock shape on the wall. His eyes weren’t adjusted enough to see the hands of the clock.L

“I dunno, I just—I need to—” Arthur seemed out of breath, almost panicked.

Charles woke up a bit more. “What’s wrong?”

“Things have been real weird, Charles. I can’t sleep.”

Charles paused for a second. He sat up a little in bed. “What do you mean?”

“It’s hard for me to say.” Arthur said after a long pause.

“What, is your apartment haunted?” He joked, laughing lightly.

“What? No it ain’t—I’m serious, I’ve been—” He laughed, voice nervous. “Can I please come over?”

Charles’ eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. It was just past three a.m. He sighed. This certainly wasn’t some kind of prank call. “You know my address?”

“I think so.”

Charles stood, his tired muscles aching. “My name’s written on the buzzer.”

“Okay.” Arthur hung up.

“Not even a goodbye,” Charles muttered. He changed into his pajamas (much more presentable than answering the door in his boxers), a set he got this past Christmas. Just as he was buttoning up the top button, his door buzzer lit up.

“It’s me.” He said, sounding out of breath. 

Charles pressed the button to let him into the building. It only seemed like a minute later that Arthur knocked on his door.

“Arthur, you look like shit.” Charles said, letting Arthur in.

Pale and sweaty, he laughed. “Gee, thanks.” 

“Have you looked at yourself?”

“I called you and ran straight here.” He panted, wiping his forehead with his coat sleeve. “No time to primp or pamper myself.”

Charles closed the door. “Must be pretty serious.”

Arthur shrugged off his coat. “I tell ya Charles, I think this boxing is finally getting to me.”

Charles folded his arms and rested against the doorframe. “How so?”

“Listen, I dunno, if—if my brain is turning to mush or if all the knocks to the head have caused me to think differently, but—either way, I ain’t right.”

Charles scoffed. “You’re fine. What are you talking about?”

“Maybe I just shoulda stayed home—” He pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Arthur. You called me in the middle of the night and ran here. Clearly something has you all worked up.”

Sighing enough to get all the air out of his lungs, Arthur kept his head down. “I’ve been—” He swallowed, “I’ve been havin’ these weird dreams. Dreams about _you_ , dreams about my _dad—_ ” He rubbed his eyes. “I feel all…strange.”

Charles knew what he was talking about, but decided to play it casually. “What sorts of dreams, Arthur?” 

“Dreams of—” He laughed as if it were a joke. “Us. _Together_. They started ‘bout a week ago.”

Charles thought about what happened last week. Their night session, where they fell into that compromising position. He saw the expression on Arthur’s face, knowing he could either face those feelings or run from them.

And yet, here he was, in Charles’ apartment.

“And my dad keeps interruptin’ ‘em.” He lifted his head up to look at Charles. “You know how I got this, right here?” He pointed at his chin, at the two diagonal lines of raised scars.

“No clue.”

“Well I sure as hell didn’t either before tonight.” He laughed nervously, knowing how unhinged he probably sounded. “My father sliced me open with a broken bottle.” He looked out the window, stabilizing his breath. The only thing worse now would be if he started weeping in front of Charles. “He caught me looking at somethin’ I shouldn’t have.”

Charles watched him, expression soft. “What was it?”

Arthur clenched his jaw. “A picture of—It don’t matter.”

Deciding not to push it, he waited.

“I don’t know what it is when I see you, Charles. How my throat gets all dry, or, or how my stomach gets tangled up. I swear I can’t—can’t even…” he trailed off for a second, laughing uneasily at what he was saying. “I can’t even stop thinking about you when I jack off! I feel like a _goddamn_ teenager! I’ve been tryin’ to get that image of you out of my head. How you were over me. And even now, I ain’t even sure what I want to do. I don’t know if I wanna fight you or kiss you.”

There was a lot to unpack in all of this.

Charles stood up straight, unfolding his arms. “Do what you want to do. I’m ready for either.”

Arthur’s hands formed into fists, then relaxed. He stepped forward, heart pounding in his ears. What Charles saw was a man, sweaty and shaking, genuinely unsure what to do with each movement. Even as he pressed his lips, slightly chapped and trembling, to his, Charles was still expecting a quick uppercut.

Arthur stepped back a few seconds later, seeming slightly better.

“Is that what you wanted?” Charles finally asked, watching Arthur’s hands flex and loosen.

“I—” A slight smile formed on his face. “Can I do that again?”

Charles laughed. “Yeah, you can.”

Arthur tentatively moved forward again. He kissed Charles just as timidly as before. When he broke the kiss, he was still breathing unevenly. 

“You feel better?” Charles asked. He stroked the side of Arthur’s face with his thumb.

“I...I don’t know.” Arthur shrugged off his coat. He was still burning up. “I think I need to sit down.”

Charles guided him to his threadbare couch. “I’ll get you some water.”

“Okay, okay.” Arthur couldn’t seem to catch his breath. There was too much circling around in his head. He certainly didn’t regret the kiss. Or, rather, the kisses. It was only then that he was sitting down that he figured out something. 

Charles reciprocated the kisses. It only made his heart beat faster. It was a different kind of nervousness in his chest.

“Did you know?” Arthur asked, taking the glass of water from Charles. 

“Know what?”

“‘Bout…’bout me?” He gulped down his water as Charles thought.

“I had my thoughts, but I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

He set the empty glass on the end table. “So that night practice wasn’t a, a setup or somethin’?”

Charles scoffed. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t—” Arthur stopped. Pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about.”

“We don’t have to talk about this now.” Charles placated.

Arthur nodded a little too long. “Think that would be good.” After a long pause, the noisy second hand of Charles’ clock ticking behind them, he asked, “Could I sleep here?”

“...What?” 

“Not! Not like that!” Arthur sputtered. “I just mean on the couch.”

“That’s fine.” Charles said, a little confused by this behavior.

“I just don’t wanna be alone right now.” He said quietly, hanging his head. “I just wanna get some goddamn sleep.”

Charles patted him on the arm. “It’s _fine._ I’ll get you a pillow.”

“Charles, I—” He said, just as Charles was going to search through his closet. “I hope I didn’t misread this.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kiss, mostly.”

Charles smiled softly. “You didn’t. We can talk about this later, maybe when we’re not so tired.”

“Yeah, sure.” For the first time since he woke up, Arthur felt calm.

He slept through the night without another nightmare.

Way past nine in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! It's been a minute!
> 
> Enjoy! :)

The door closed loudly, waking Arthur from his sleep. He didn’t dream since sleeping at Charles’ apartment, although his couch was something to be desired in terms of comfort. “You’re still here?” Charles asked, slightly surprised. “Not that it’s a big deal.”

Arthur groaned, stretching his arms over his head. It felt like he slept for a year. His tired eyes looked over at Charles, who was holding a paper bag of groceries. “You runnin’ a bed and breakfast?”

Charles laughed. “Hardly.” He walked past the couch and went into the kitchen. Arthur watched him walk by. Things felt... _different_. In obvious ways, mostly that he wanted to kiss him again, but also in a certain feeling in his chest. It almost made him dizzy.

He rubbed his eyes one more time before checking the clock. 

It was 10:30 am.

“Shit, shit, _shit_!” Arthur fumbled for his shoes and coat, cast off from the couch. “I gotta go!”

“Do you have practice?” Charles peeked his head out from the kitchen. 

“ _Had_ practice. Dutch is gonna be so goddamn pissed--” Arthur shoved his feet in his shoes.

“I’m sorry, I should have woken you up--”

“No need to feel sorry, Charles. It was my own damn fault--”

Charles could see the guilt on Arthur’s face. He looked the same as he did last night.

“I’ll--I’ll see you at the big match--” Arthur said absently, leaving without saying another word.

He slammed the door shut. All Charles could hear was the sound of the loudly ticking clock.

\--

“I’ll stop home briefly, change my outfit--” Arthur huffed as he ran up the stairs. “I could get there by 11:30--” As he exited the stairway, running down the corridor to his apartment, his heart sank. He could see a sliver of light under his apartment door. Dutch was in there. Breathing a steadying breath, he wiped his face of any excess sweat and stepped inside.

“I was starting to think you were dead.” Dutch said sternly, resting uneasily in the wingback chair. He was twirling his rings.

“Sorry, Dutch, I--” He scrambled to think of an excuse.

“Arthur, so help me god, if the next thing that comes out of your mouth is a goddamn lie--”

Arthur’s mouth snapped shut. He clenched his jaw in lieu of making it worse.

“Where were you?”

Arthur swallowed thickly. “Out.” 

Dutch paused for a moment, then stood. “You gonna _expound_ on that?”

“Don’t think it’d be much good if I did,” Arthur said, jaw clenched.

“Why, were you out drinking? Smoking dope with John?”

“Weren’t anything like that.” Arthur said lowly.

Scoffing, Dutch looked out the window for a moment. “Typical.”

There was a pause. Arthur took off his coat. “What do you mean by that?”

“How _typical_ of you to shirk on your responsibilities, especially when the goddamn match is _this Saturday._ ” Dutch walked toward Arthur. “Do you even _want_ to defend your title, Arthur?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Dutch, of course I do--”

“Then why the hell are you fighting me on every step?” Dutch yelled. “I think you’re just too damn soft, too _weak_ , to even give a shit anymore! Why don’t you just roll over now, give the title to Charles?”

Arthur balled his hands into fists. He remained stoic. 

“Twenty goddamn years and he’s going to give it up to Colm with some newcomer.” Dutch grumbled, shaking his head. “First Annabelle, then Hosea, then John, now you.” He shoved Arthur. “Nothing but a goddamn--”

In a flash, Arthur saw Dutch’s face morph into his father’s. “ _\--disappointment_.”

Before Arthur could think, he punched Dutch in the face. All the years of unresolved anger, out in a tightly wrapped fist.

Dutch staggered back, falling to the floor. His nose was bleeding. He first looked up at Arthur with fear, until he felt the blood on his fingertips. He smirked, chuckling to himself.

“Maybe you do still have some fight in you.” Dutch said, wiping his bloody fingers onto Arthur’s rug. “Get changed.”

As Dutch stood to leave, Arthur watched him gather his hat and scarf and leave as if nothing happened. The last time Arthur tried to punch Dutch, he was smaller, less brutish. Still just a kid. He gathered his clothes for the gym.

\--

_“That’s the best you can do?” Dutch called out, blocking every one of Arthur’s punches. He looked like a little boy with Dutch’s old boxing gloves, too large for his skinny fists. He’d grown about four inches since Dutch started training him about six months ago, his weight still low. Soon enough, judging from Lyle’s physique, he’d be at a lightweight rank. Now he was just a featherweight._

_“I’m trying, Dutch.” Arthur sighed, tilting his head from side to side. He looked like he was about to fall over. The practices were long; a rigorous pattern of running, lifting, and getting in the ring. Due to his lithe body, Dutch had focused on helping the boy’s punches. He hadn’t won any matches in a while. Food was scarce for both of them. Even if he had all the money in the city, Arthur wouldn’t have enough to buy the food he needed to put meat on his bones._

_“Try_ harder _.” Dutch smacked the two gloves together. “Again.”_

 _Arthur bounced on his feet, keeping his movements light. The boy was_ quick _, there was no doubt about that. But Lyle didn’t go for quick. He went for heavy, powerful swings. Dutch still blocked each of Arthur’s swings. “C’mon, you aren’t gonna win with punches like that!”_

 _Arthur bared his teeth as he kept trying to land punches. There was some point, either between Dutch’s insistence of_ power _and_ strength _, or by Dutch pushing in further and further in on Arthur’s corner, something in the boy snapped. He tried doing illegal moves, below the belt swings, anything to give Dutch his just desserts. “Arthur, hey--_ STOP _!” He yelled. There was no getting through to him. He was like an angry bull and Dutch was the matador._

 _Finally, Dutch pushed Arthur back against the ropes. He tore off his gloves, socking the kid one on the jaw. Arthur fell slack against the ropes for a minute. Dutch put his glove firmly against his chest so he wouldn’t fall like a house of cards._ _  
_ _  
_ _“Listen to me,” Dutch growled. “If you ever try any of that shit on me again, I will throw you so fast out on the street you won’t even know what hit you. I don’t care if your father is Lyle Goddamn Morgan. You don’t_ disrespect _me in this gym.” Arthur kept his eyeline down, maneuvering his jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken. Dutch crouched to get Arthur to look at him. “You got that?”_

_“Yes Dutch.” Arthur said in a small voice. It was all too calm for the situation._

_“Good. Take five, then we do it again.”_

_Arthur’s jaw was numb._

\--

Charles hadn’t seen Arthur since Monday morning.

Not that it was a long time, but time passed differently after Arthur slammed his apartment door. 

“Bet you’re glad to be away from that hulking brute and his slimy coach, huh?” Colm smirked, getting up from the metal folding chair.  
  
“Yeah, definitely.” Charles said absently, taking a sip of water. Practices were light, since nothing could really be done to change the upcoming match. It was all a matter of waiting. Charles tried not to think about it. All those people in the crowd, all the bets to be made _for_ him and _against_ him...It all made him kind of dizzy.

“Hey, I didn’t show you yet!” Colm snapped his fingers as if he just remembered. “Management made your robe and shorts for the match.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. They go all out with newcomers. Only thing is I had to foot the goddamn bill for dry cleaning, but--” He held up his finger as he made an exit for the door. “It’s in my car.”

Charles stood around absently, tilting his head from one side to the other. He heard a crack.

The gym door slammed as Colm came back in, garment bag in hand. “I went with dark blue for the main color. You seem like a dark blue kind of man with your--” He motioned to Charles’ face. “ _Complexion_.”

Charles clenched his jaw and tilted his head back a little. Nothing could ever just be a nice moment with Colm. 

He unzipped the garment bag, gently pulling out the robe. Just as Colm said, the robe was a deep blue. Over the right breast of the robe were the white letters _CS_.

“Colm, it’s--” Charles reached out to grab the robe. 

“That ain’t even the best part.” Colm flipped the robe over. In the same font as the letters on the front were the words _LONE WOLF._ “Here.” He finally handed the robe over. 

Charles ran his fingers over the fine stitching across his stage name. He couldn’t help but smile a little.

“There’s also your shorts in there, but they ain’t much.”

“Thank you.” Charles finally said, putting the robe back in the bag.

“No need to thank me. It was mostly management’s doing. Although I’m gonna take out some money from your earnings since I paid for the cleaning an’ all.”

Charles was too concerned with having the robe in his possession to be annoyed with Colm in that moment. “Okay.”

“Welcome to the big leagues, kid.” He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Now all you gotta do is beat that son of a bitch.”

 _That_ was going to be the hard part.

\--

Wednesday rolled around. He remembered Javier’s new gig as a musician started up in a different club, much closer to Charles’ apartment. He left his apartment around eight, only needing to take the train for a couple of stops. The club was easier to find, just down an alleyway. Charles presumed meant it was a dry club, not that he minded. He wasn’t exactly in the mood to drink. Besides, even though he was tapering, Colm still wanted him in the gym. 

He knocked on the door of the club. A man larger than Charles opened the door. He nodded curtly and let him in. He quickly shrugged off his coat, putting it on the overfull coat rack near the entrance. In the blue glow of the lights, Charles weaved around dancing couples to get closer to the stage. He could hear Javier singing in his dulcet tones, watching his fingers deftly pluck at the strings. He looked completely in his element, focused on the music. It was quite a sight.

“Evening, Charles.” A voice said. Charles looked behind him. It was Mary-Beth. Charles, truth be told, was pretty happy to see her. Well, to see someone else he knew in here. Her beaded dress glittered in the blue spotlight.

“Mary-Beth, good evening.” Charles said, getting close to her ear. “I didn’t realize Javier was such a talented musician.”

“Me neither,” she sighed lightly, watching Javier sing. “Dottie told me plenty about how good he was, but I wasn’t expecting it to be like this.”

“Dottie’s here as well?” Charles looked for her passively.

“Haven’t seen here in a while.” She replied, not sounding too concerned. “I’m sure she’s waiting in the dressing room for Javier.” She laughed, but it seemed like she was telling the truth. “Do you want to dance?”

Without another thought, Charles gently took her hand and rested his other on her waist. He felt a little less awkward at the dancing, although the pace of Javier’s song was perfect for his footwork. It was slow, the kind of pace that lovers or newlyweds danced to.

Not that he would know about that.

“You’re here alone?” Mary-Beth asked, almost a little sad at the possibility. 

“It was too short notice to ask anyone.” Charles lied.

“Even Arthur was busy?” 

“Arthur and I--” Charles smiled slightly, mostly out of confusion and nervousness. The past few days have felt strange without him. Then, thinking back to that night in his apartment, it felt even weirder when he _was_ around. “We’re not seeing each other until Saturday.”

“The match.” She gasped slightly. “That’s finally happening?”

“I can hardly believe it either.” Charles shook his head a little. “Will you be there?”

“I--I don’t know who to root for if I do go!” She chuckled.

“If you root for Arthur, I won’t be offended.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that!”

Charles spun her slowly.  
  
“I’ll root for both of you to not get hurt.” She smiled.

“Good enough for me.”

Javier strummed an ending chord to his song. The club patrons and dancers gave him a polite and sober applause. “Thank you,” Javier said, slight feedback coming from the mic. “Up next, we have Benny Bogart and the Silver Strings!” A few people in the crowd whistled. The two watched as Javier left the stage and presumably Benny Bogart and the Silver Strings adjusted the equipment and tuned their violins.

“This club is dry, right?” Charles asked, already assuming the answer.

Mary-Beth made a face. “Unfortunately.”

“I might see what the soda jerk has then,” he quipped. “Do you want anything?”

“Mm, I’ll take a cream soda if they have it. I’ll find a table.”

\--

A couple of cream sodas later, Javier and Dottie joined them at their table. “Charles, glad you’re still here!”

“Of course!” He said, trying not to notice the lipstick prints and faint hickies on Javier’s neck. “I didn’t realize you were such a talented musician.”

“Ah, stop.” Javier feigned bashfulness. He pulled up a chair. 

“Don’t those lights get bright?” Mary-Beth asked, resting her chin on her hand. 

“They do, but I guess I’m used to it by now. First night or so, I thought I was going to get set on fire!”

Dottie kissed him on the cheek. “I’m gonna go to the ladies room.”

“Mind if I tag along?” Mary-Beth asked.

“Please, Mary-Beth, I insist!” Dottie held out her arm for her to take.

Charles and Javier stood as well as they both left the table out of courtesy. “Why do women do that?”

Javier laughed. “Dunno, friend. Maybe to talk about us?”

“Only good things, I bet.”

“Absolutely.” He took a sip of his soda. “So...the match. You nervous?”

He shrugged. “Not really. It may sound dumb, but I think I’m more concerned about Arthur.”

Javier laughed as if Charles said a joke. “ _Please_ , that old man will be fine.”

He went to take a swig of his soda to find there was nothing left. He set the bottle down disappointedly. “Dutch has been pushing him really hard.”

“Look, Charles, I’ve known John long enough to know that’s just how Dutch is. And, hell, Arthur’s been around _Dutch_ longer than all of us. It’s why he’s still there and John has a family.”

“Did John ever complain about Dutch when he was still boxing?”

He scoffed. “I think a better question would be if he ever _stopped_ complaining about Dutch.”

“Mm, point taken.”

Javier sat back in his chair. “I’ll be there, either way. I’m sure only nosebleed seats are left, but I’ll be there.”

“You gonna bet on either of us?” Charles asked with a smirk.

“Nah, I ain’t a betting man.”

“You done talking about us?” They heard Dottie call out as her and Mary-Beth got closer to the table again. 

“We should ask the same for you!” Javier joked. 

Dottie pretended to be shocked. “We would _never_!” Mary-Beth tittered. 

Benny Bogart and the Silver Strings started playing a faster-paced song that Dottie seemed to recognize. Before Charles _or_ Javier knew it, they were pulled to the dance floor by their prospective dance partners. The rest of the night was a whirlwind as song after song played.

The band announced they had one more song. Charles, whose feet were sore in his fancy loafers, silently thanked the band for wrapping up. He’d gotten pretty good at dancing and spinning Mary-Beth around. She made for a good dance partner.

“Just a few weeks ago you couldn’t dance without looking at the floor.” Mary-Beth mused.

“I’m a quick learner!” Charles said as he gave her a spin into a sweetheart position. 

“You sure are!”

As the number concluded, the crowd cheered and whistled. The stage lights faded out as the band made their exit. 

Mary-Beth gave Charles a chase kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the dance.”

“Anytime.” 

She gave a quick curtsy and looked around the dance floor. “Do you see Dottie or Javier?” She got on her tippy toes to try to get a better view.

He looked around as well. “Can’t say I do.”

“Damn,” she said, slightly above a whisper. “They must have made a French exit. Would you mind--could you walk me home?”

Charles nodded. “Let me get my coat.”

\--

Arthur got home late, _much_ too late. He was a little drunk, admittedly. He had a few drinks at Flannery’s, a speakeasy he much didn’t care for but tolerated as no one would recognize him or bother him.

As he ate cold food from his fridge, he looked up at the clock. “Don’t do it, Arthur.” He said to himself, licking his fingers. He wiped the remaining grease on his shirt. 

He distracted himself (and tried to sober himself up) by showering. He scrubbed his body, muscles aching from the punishing routines Dutch was pushing him through. He should be bathing in ice. To compensate, he turned the water freezing cold. He yelped, deciding it wasn’t enough to have it that cold. It wasn’t _worth_ it.

After wrapping himself in a towel, he looked back at the clock. It was too late; Charles was probably sleeping by now. He shouldn’t _bother_ him, especially when he’s already still a little drunk.

“Ah, fuck it.” Arthur grumbled, grabbing the telephone receiver.

\--

The walk to Mary-Beth’s apartment was nice. They talked about the weather, their friends, fun things to do around the city…

Then it was a matter of letting Mary-Beth know he wasn’t going to stay the night. Charles tensed up as she pointed out her apartment complex. “Well, this is me.” She sighed, turning to look at Charles. Snowflakes fell gently on her wool cap and coat. 

“Okay.” Charles said stiltedly.  
  
“What’s wrong?”

“I was going to--” He cleared his throat. “Go home now?”

“Well I sure hope so!” They looked at each other for a beat. The realization dawned on her face. “Oh, did you--” She laughed. “No, no, this isn’t what--” She shook her head. 

Now it was Charles’ turn to laugh. “I’m so _glad_ to hear that.” He laughed, chest feeling lighter. “I mean, you’re a nice girl and all--” He sighed. 

“And you’re a gentleman--but--Ahh! No, no! I just wanted someone to escort me home so I don’t get robbed or murdered!” She said lightly, not thinking about the admittance.

“Well that--that makes sense.” Charles nodded. “Glad you’re home safe.”

“Thanks to you, of course!”

“Anytime.”

She gave a gentle smile and pulled out her key from her purse. “Good night, Charles.”

“Good night to you too.” He waved as she walked up the stairs to her complex. As he saw her slip inside the main door, he turned and made his way back to his apartment. He felt lighter and more relaxed than he had in quite a while, with part of that being satisfied that nothing was misconstrued with Mary-Beth.

He wondered if she knew… If she did, she was discreet about it. 

The walk back to his apartment was quiet. Charles enjoyed this time of night. Very few stragglers around his apartment, no sounds of cars or yelling…

A note was waiting for him on his apartment door. 

_Neighbor,_

_If you INSIST on being out late, unplug your phone! It has been ringing for the past hour!_

_If this keeps up, I will call the authorities!_

  * _Roy from Apartment #17_



  
  


Charles crumpled the note, tossing it into the trash can as soon as he got inside. He brushed the stray snowflakes off of his coat, hanging it on the coat rack. Well, there were only two people who would be calling him at this hour: Colm or Arthur.

The insistence of the rings meant it was from the latter. 

Charles, sleep settling quickly into his body, unplugged his phone before it would ring again. 

\--

It was Saturday evening.  
  
It all came down to this. 

Arthur checked and double checked the garment bag to have all of his things ready. Just as he thought, it was right where he left it. Like the previous fifty times he checked. He tapped his foot in his fanciest loafers nervously. It was almost 5:30. 

The match wasn’t until 8, but Dutch made a point to be early for any match. He felt it helped Arthur get into “the zone,” although Arthur insisted that his “zone” was only in the ring. Dutch never listened. 

There was a gentle rapping at his apartment door. Arthur smoothed his hair back and grabbed his hat. “Oh good, you’re ready.”

“Of course I am.” Arthur said. 

Dutch gave him a look as he snatched the garment bag.

Things had been rocky for the week. Dutch was working him harder than before. Arthur felt like a tightly tuned violin string. He dreaded to think when he’ll snap.

“You’re lucky I called us a driver.” 

Arthur put his fedora on. It was an old hat, one of the first things he bought with his winnings. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

They rode to the stadium in silence. The start and stop traffic only made things more uncomfortable. 

“Listen, son--” Dutch started, spinning his ring on his middle finger. “Don’t you want to win?”

Arthur looked over at him. If he looked really hard, he could see the scar under his mustache. “”Course I do.”

“I want you to win as well. Which is why I’ve been so damn hard on you! I know you can take it.” Dutch places a strong hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You just have to believe in _yourself_.”

Arthur was a little distracted to pay attention to his motivational speech, but he nodded along anyway. It was starting to snow again. 

\--

“Goddamned snow,” Colm groused as soon as they stepped out of the apartment building, tugging on his hat. It was ratty and dirty, made especially odder since he was in his Sunday best. “Let’s go to the station.”

Charles was dressed smartly in a new suit and a wool coat. It was starting to get colder in the night time, so he decided to take the plunge to wear something thicker. He tucked his garment bag under his arm as they walked to the station. 

“Knowing van Der Linde, I bet he’s already there.” Colm checked his watch, putting it up to his ear to make sure it still worked. “Son of a bitch always got there early.”

Charles was struck oddly by that. Why bother getting there early? To beat the rush? Forgoing photographers?

He remembered the flashing lights at the press conference. It wasn’t a bad guess.

They walked up the icy stairs, both of them gripping the rail. “No one better throw themselves onto the tracks today.” Colm muttered.

Charles didn’t ask for elaboration. Better not to know.

\--

Dutch and Arthur arrived at the stadium at 6:15. The building was an upscale stadium with high arches and a tin ceiling. The lobby had an intricate mosaic floor. Arthur had boxed here a few times before, if only for title matches. The alleged mosaic floor was only something in his distant memory. He only saw it one time due to Dutch’s guidance of going through the back door of the building. People were starting to line up at the door, shivering under the marquee lights.

Arthur got a glimpse of the sign before they drove to the back: 

**1925 HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP TITLE MATCH**

**“PRETTY BOY” MORGAN VS. “LONE WOLF” SMITH**

**ONE NIGHT ONLY!**

Only then was it starting to feel real. 

\--

The doors closed just as the two men got on the train. Now Charles was starting to sweat under his big coat. “Don’t sit down, we’ll only be here for a few stops.”

Charles knew it was _more_ than a few stops, but he stood anyway. He gripped the handrail right near the door. 

“You’re awfully dressed up.” An old woman said to him from across the traincar. “Do you have a date?”

Charles laughed slightly. “Something like that.”  
  
“Good luck!” She smiled back at him. 

“You’re so _modest_ .” Colm laughed. “Why not tell her you’re going to a boxing match? Or rather _your_ boxing match?”

“It makes no difference to her.” He shrugged.  
  
Colm scoffed, looking at his reflection in the window. He checked his grey teeth, running a tongue over the front of them to get any stray food out.

“We’ll have to sneak through the back when we get there.” 

Charles resisted the urge to sigh. “Okay.”

\--

“Hop on the scale, the announcer needs to know your weight.” Dutch said, holding a pen and paper.

“All right.” Arthur took off his shoes and coat. “You want me to strip down?”

“Probably would be better.”

Arthur sighed and unbuttoned his shirt. Dutch kept himself busy with the program. “Jesus, where do they get the guys to write copy for this?”

“Why, what’s it say?”

Dutch folded the program. “Just detailing our _colorful_ history in the least interesting way possible. Evelyn Miller they are _not_ \--”

Arthur, in his underwear and undershirt, stepped on the scale. He never cared for this part. Dutch always had something to say if he wasn’t happy with the number.

And he was _never_ happy with the number.

Dutch pocketed the program and fiddled around with the scale notches. He clicked it up to 200. The scale was unbalanced, clicking downward. With a pinched expression on his face, he clicked it down to 150.  
  
He slid the ticker until it balanced.

196.

“You lost weight.” Dutch said, a slight concern in his voice.

“Gee, wonder why.” Arthur scoffed, stepping off the scale. “Couldn’t be because of the two a day workouts or nothin’--”

“Don’t blame that on _me_ . I told you you needed to start cooking for yourself.  
  
“Well it’s too late now, Dutch.” Arthur unzipped his garment bag. “We’re already here.”

“Yeah, and Smith has at _least_ a good fifteen pounds on you. And that’s all muscle.” Dutch stroked his mustache. Arthur knew that was a tell.

“You think I can’t do this?” Arthur asked, tugging his shorts up. “You think a few pounds is gonna make much difference?”

“It could cost you the title.” Dutch said in a dire tone. 

“But it _won’t_.”

Dutch sighed a long sigh. “I admire your confidence, son.”

“Wish I could say the same.” Arthur grumbled.

“You going to keep giving me more lip, or are you going to shut up and stretch?”

“See you at the ring.” Arthur said after a long pause.

\--

Colm and Charles made it to the venue with an hour and change to spare. The crowd outside the stadium was just going through the doors. “Probably going to be a full house.” Colm surmised after looking at the swarm of people. 

“How many people does this hold?”

“Dunno, probably a few thousand? Not to mention the radio announcers that will also be there.”

Charles’ eyes grew wide. Colm directed him to cut through the crowd and get to the back of the building. A few people gasped as he walked by. “That’s him!” One said. “That’s Lone Wolf!”

“Good luck tonight, Smith!” Another called out.  
  
“We’ll be rootin’ for you!” Another man said.  
  
Charles looked back and gave a polite smile and a wave. “Thank you!”

“Always so modest.” Colm shook his head. A couple of security guys were at the back of the building. They nodded and let the two of them in.

“The locker room’s down the hall. Go and get ready.”

Charles slung the garment bag over his shoulder. “You know where to find me.”

“Evening, Colm.” Dutch spat.  
  
“Van Der Linde.” He turned around. “I see you’re still wearing the same suit as always.”

“And I see _you’re_ still fashioning your beaten up loafers. Certainly a choice.”

Colm laughed politely, ignoring Dutch’s barb. “You know, I would have brought _my_ Annabelle, but she couldn’t make it.”

Dutch sneered back at Colm, then started to laugh. “I know she left you long ago.”

Colm kept his face stern. “Oh?”

“Your _protégé_ told Arthur, who then told me. And who wouldn’t leave you?” 

Colm stepped closer to Dutch. “You’re _lucky_ we’re in a public place, otherwise I’d make you swallow your teeth.”

“ _Ooh,_ I’m terrified.” He quipped. “How’s your brother?”

Colm glared daggers at him. “Excuse me.” He walked past Dutch, shoulder checking him as he did.  
  
“I hope my dry cleaning can get the O’Driscoll stink off of me!” Dutch called out. He scoffed and swiped his hands over where Colm brushed against him.

\--

Charles hung up his garment bag on the corner of a locker door. The locker room wasn’t especially fancy, given the concrete and metal facets, but it was certainly cleaner than most locker rooms he’d been in. Hell, it was even cleaner than the gym Arthur went to.

He unbuttoned his wool coat, carefully hanging it up in the locker. He slipped out of his clothes and put on his boxing attire. His shorts were pristinely steamed and comfortable to boot. As he tied up his shoes, he heard a toilet flush.

Arthur stepped out of one of the stalls, tying his red shorts. “Mr. Smith.” He greeted.

“Long time no see.” Charles sat up straighter on the bench. “Is there a rule about opponents not seeing each other before a match?”  
  
Arthur scoffed as he washed his hands in the sink. “Ain’t no wedding.”

“Right.” Charles said, stretching his arms over his head. “Did you try to call me on Wednesday?”

“Why would you think I would do something like that?” Arthur smirked, shutting off the water. 

“My neighbor left an angry note on my door.”

“You were out _that_ late?”

“I had to take Mary-Beth home.” After a beat, he added. “Not like that.”

“Huh.” Arthur crossed his arms and rested against the wall on the other side of the locker room. “I, uh--” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I ain’t been around.” 

“Things have been busy.” Charles shrugged, mirroring Arthur and crossing his arms. He looked over at Arthur. “You need your hands wrapped?”

Arthur wiped the excess water off his hands. “If ya don’t mind.”

Charles got the wrapping from his garment bag. A brand new roll. Nothing like it.

Arthur held out his hands, scarred and calloused, out in front of Charles. 

He was careful in wrapping, taking Arthur’s hands delicately in his own. Arthur’s breath hitched as he watched Charles’ fingers deftly curl around his own, winding the wrap around his hands. There was nothing more he wanted to do than to pull Charles close to him and kiss him fiercely as an apology and a thanks. But he didn’t.

“That good?” Charles asked.

“Yeah, that--that’s good.” He could feel himself blushing. He tucked his head to try to hide it from Charles. He flexed his hands a few times, nodding. “Thank you.”

“Any time.”

“You uh, you need yours wrapped?” 

“Not yet.” Charles tossed the wrap back into the bag. “Gonna do some stretches first.”

“I think...I need some air.”

“See you at eight.”

Arthur nodded, slipping out of the locker room. 

Charles felt a wavering in his chest as he watched him go. He knew he couldn’t do anything about his personal feelings for him, not now. Thinking about how to talk about that after the match made him more anxious than the match itself. He did some deep breathing exercises as he started to stretch. Anything to take his mind off of this situation.

\--

Arthur paced outside the locker room. His heart was beating in his ears. Less than an hour before the match. And yet that was the furthest thing on his mind.

“Arthur?” A voice that was trying to be sweet asked. Arthur didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

“Mary.” Arthur sighed, turning. He tried not to be surprised that her husband was with her as well. She looked the same as she did when he last saw her all those years ago. He didn’t want to admit it, but the sight of her made his heart skip a beat. “How’d you get back here?”

“Well, Reggie pulled some strings so we can get press seats.” She smiled at her husband proudly. He promised her all the things Arthur couldn’t try to achieve. “Arthur, this is Reggie.”

Reggie excitedly shook Arthur’s hand. He had a nice grip, but not a strong one. Delicate and soft hands. “Mr. Morgan, I’m a big fan.”

“Well thank you kindly.” Arthur said as nicely as he could.

“Arthur and I go way back.” She said to Reggie.

“Yeah, _way way_ back.” Arthur emphasized.

“Did you ever think he’d be a boxing star one day?” Reggie asked back, looking at Arthur.

Mary gave Arthur a peculiar look from under her cloche hat. “Not in a million years.”

There was an awkward pause between the three of them. Reggie was the one to break the silence. 

“I was going to get some snacks, do you want anything?”

“No, honey, I’m fine.” She kissed Reggie on the cheek. 

“Nice to meet you.” Reggie nodded at Arthur, sneaking past him in the hall to the concessions. 

Arthur waited until he was out of earshot. “What are you doing here, Mary?”

“I thought you’d be happy to see me.” She frowned.

“I--I _am_ , but not like this. You paradin’ around your husband and coming back here--you _hate_ boxing.”

“You’d hate it too if you had to always play nurse for someone.” She sniped. “But Reggie loves it. He just wanted to meet you.”

“Well now he did.” Arthur said coldy.  
  
Mary looked at him with glassy eyes. “Good luck.” She walked away, hurrying to find Reggie.

“Just get this fucking night over with…” Arthur told himself.

\--

The bright lights were all pointed at the ring. The crowd was getting situated, still unfocused and rowdy. It wasn’t until the announcer, dressed in the most pinstriped suit, grabbed the microphone that the audience went wild. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” The man bellowed. “Welcome to the 1925 heavyweight championship!”

The crowd cheered and whooped as the announcer directed their attention to one side of the stadium. “In this corner, we have a newcomer, a real greenhorn! Weighing in at two hundred and twelve pounds...weighing in at two hundred and thirteen pounds… _Charles ‘Lone Wolf’ Smith!”_

Charles felt Colm nudge him out to the ring. “Knock him dead!” He shouted.

Charles felt the heat of all the bodies in the massive room, the shouts of the crowd. He kept his robe hood over his eyes, hustling to the ring. He climbed past the ropes as gracefully as he could. Only then did he push his hood down over his low ponytail. The announcer motioned for Charles to stand next to him. He swayed back and forth slightly, anxious to start. 

“And in this corner,” the announcer turned the audience’s attention to the spot across from Charles. “Returning to defend his title...weighing in at two hundred pounds... _Arthur ‘Pretty Boy’ Morgan!_ ”

Charles thought the crowd went wild for him, but it was nothing compared to how they reacted to Arthur stepping into view. It was as if the most famous person stepped into those four walls. Arthur seemed troubled, Charles could tell under his red robe. Troubled, but focused. He hit his gloves together a few times, pumping himself up as he went into the ring. He hopped up and turned to wave to the crowd. Even though he acted like he didn’t love it, he was incredibly good at grandstanding and vamping for the audience. 

Charles heard the idle chatter of the radio announcers off to the side. He watched Arthur tug his hood down, make one more wave to the crowd, then stepped beside the announcer. 

“Okay gentlemen, I want a clean fight. Nothing below the belt.”

The two men nodded at each other. Assistants came behind the two of them, taking their robes off.  
  
“All right. Put ‘em there.” The man motioned with his hands. Charles and Arthur put their gloves against one another. They held eye contact for as long as they could. Arthur looked away first.

“Go off to your corners, gentlemen.” The announcer instructed. “When the bell rings, you know what to do!”

The crowd cheered loudly. Charles looked as far as he could see. A sea of faces. It felt surreal. It was easily a hundred times over the amount of people who saw his fights before. 

Colm was down near his corner. “You know what to do, you’ve had plenty of training.”

Charles nodded. 

“Don’t wear yourself out too quickly. Don’t be like Morgan. He likes to do that.” Colm said quietly, although with the crowd it was still a yell. Charles could smell the liquor on his breath.

Charles watched Dutch talk to Arthur, motioning with his hands excitedly, doing boxing motions. He looked at the judges table. The match was about to begin. 

“Ready gentlemen?” The announcer asked, now standing outside the ropes. It was a rhetorical question as he started counting down immediately. “3, 2, 1--”

_Ding ding!_

Just as Charles suspected, Arthur stormed over to his side of the ring. He was on the defensive, ducking and blocking. Arthur wasn’t pulling any punches. 

Charles used his footwork to maneuver to the middle of the mat. Arthur followed closely. Swiping at him, Charles stepped back just in time, his back pressing against the ropes. He swiped and swerved, finally landing a jab in Arthur’s side. Doing that was only like poking a bear. Arthur’s punches became faster, more annoyed. He punched Charles on the right side of his jaw. Charles groaned in pain, ducking as Arthur attempted to land more punches on him.

Charles knew the bell was going to ring any minute. He wound up his right arm, landing a mean right hook on the left side of Arthur’s face.

_Ding ding!_

The men stepped back to their corners. Charles was already covered in sweat. Colm hopped into the ring with water.

“Good start, good start.” He placated, holding out a bucket of ice. “Need this yet.”

Charles shook his head, looking over at Arthur.

In Arthur’s corner, Dutch was using the break to give a speech.

“Arthur, you gotta keep your footwork up. Smith may be better at dodging, but you have the _power_. Pull no punches.”

“I ain’t--”

“I _know_ you’re not. Now I also know you’re fond of the man, but that does not matter.” Dutch crouched down. “Charles does not matter.”

Arthur nodded, staring off at Charles. Dutch snapped his fingers in front of him. “ _Look at me, not at him_ !” He looked at Dutch, who was already starting to sweat under his suede suitcoat. “All that matters right now is you _winning_ . This title is _yours_.” He looked over at the judges. “Pull no punches, remember!”

Arthur stood again, getting his guard up. 

_Ding ding!_

Charles stayed on his side of the ring, playing it safe. It was like he said he planned to do at the diner. _Go the distance._

With Dutch yelling in his corner, the vision of Charles at the diner burned out of his memory. He landed small jabs at Charles’ side, but nothing to do much damage. Charles was quick on his feet, he’ll give him that. Arthur blocked some of his punches for a while as he caught his breath. He hated that he was breathing so hard, only in the second round. 

Then, in between all of the blocks, he saw an opening. He punched at Charles’ shoulder. If it was at Arthur’s full strength he could have knocked his arm out of his socket. Charles hissed at the pain, but his arm was in place. Charles got another jab in at Arthur’s side. Arthur paced back and forth, trying to figure out what to do. “C’mon, Pretty Boy,” Charles said. At least, that’s what he thought Charles said. It was hard to even hear the man a few feet away from him over the roar of the crowd.

_Ding ding!_

Round after round of ineffective punches, save for Charles’ jaw being swollen and bruises forming along Arthur’s flanks already. During the break, Arthur saw people leaving to place more bets, probably against him. Charles was faring better. He knew how to steady himself. Dutch was pacing, furious. “Why aren’t you beating him?”

“I am! He’s too--”

“Do _not_ say he’s too good. Don’t you dare. Stop making excuses for yourself.” Dutch crouched down to Arthur’s eye level. “You want your title?”

“Of course I do!” Arthur swished some water in his mouth. When he spit it in the nearby bucket, the water was pink. 

“Well you ain’t gonna win it with another pansy round like this. Go on,” Dutch smacked his arm. “Make your father proud.”

Dutch even saying that opened up a Pandora’s Box of feelings. Feelings Arthur couldn’t explore or even consider much. Not before--

_Ding ding!_

Arthur stormed over to Charles, anger coursing through him. Anger towards Dutch, his dad, Mary, this entire spectacle of boxing--all of it came out through his punches. His footwork was still slow in pace, but all he knew was that he was landing blows onto Charles.

Charles held up his forearms, stepping away from Arthur’s onslaught. Then, as almost a cruel irony, Arthur stuck his foot behind Charles, causing him to lose his balance against the ropes. The crowd erupted in cheers and yells at the two boxers. Arthur landed a good uppercut right under Charles’ chin. It had enough force to slice his tongue off with his teeth. He could have sworn he heard a crack.

But he wriggled out from Arthur’s space. “What happened to ‘going the distance?’” He shouted, putting his guard back up. His lip was bloody. 

“Got other plans!” Arthur yelled back, swinging one last swing at Charles before the rounded ended. He managed to miss it.

_Ding ding!_

Charles tore off his gloves and rubbed at his jaw. All his teeth were there, but it was already hurting something awful.

“Anything broken?” Colm asked. 

Charles shook his head, fingers massaging his jaw. 

“Good. I’d hate to give _Pretty Boy_ or Dutch the satisfaction.” He handed him his water bottle. Charles gulped it down as Colm explained his strategy. “Morgan’s gonna be tired out from last round, so now’s time to get him. Go on the offense, Smith.”

Charles nodded, swishing the water in his mouth before swallowing. “Okay.”

“You ready?”

“I have to be.”

“You’re damned right.”

_Ding ding!_

This round felt different to Charles. Maybe his head was still swimming from the brutal uppercut, or the lights and sounds were overstimulating him, but something felt odd. He couldn’t place it. Arthur looked just as angry, but as Colm suspected, it was slower.

“You okay?” Charles asked, keeping his pacing up, a safe enough distance.  
  
Arthur jabbed Charles as a response. It just barely connected with his cheek. 

Charles replied with a strong right hook, then an equally strong left hook. It seemed to daze Arthur, so he took a play from his book and crowded him right up against the ropes. Despite Arthur trying his damnedest to block, Charles kept exposing the spots he couldn’t cover quick enough. His fists were rapid fire, landing nearly every other time. He could hear Dutch screaming at Arthur to get away, and finally he ducked and rolled out of Charles’ way.

Arthur shook his head a few times, blinking rapidly. Charles could tell he was close to a KO. Part of him wanted to truly “go the distance,” to give the audience exactly what they wanted, but another part of him wanted this fight to end. It was starting to wear on him. All these practices, hangouts, trainings, all for this moment. 

He _thought_ a KO was in sight until Arthur hit him with a quick jab before going back to defense. Charles stumbled back, surprised by this unseen quickness. The bell was about to ring...wasn’t it?

He skulked around the ring, looking over at the judges. How much time had gone on in this round?

Arthur stalked towards him, his guard down. 

Charles seized the opportunity.

He laid a one-two combo right at Arthur’s jaw. A quick succession that Arthur couldn’t avoid. 

Arthur collapsed right as the bell rang. The referee slid into the ring, hitting the mat to denote the seconds that have gone by.

“One...two... _three_! It’s over! ‘Lone Wolf’ Smith is the new heavyweight champion!” The announcer shouted. 

Charles felt like collapsing himself. As if the wind had been knocked out of him. He walked over to Arthur, standing over him. 

Still a little stunned, Arthur got to his feet with the help of the referee. The announcer pulled Charles away from helping him. “Mr. Smith, come here!” He said, grabbing his glove. He raised it above Charles’ head as the crowd cheered and whooped. A sea of flashbulbs went off. It will be weird seeing his picture at every newsstand in NYC. 

Colm flanked him on the other side for the photo opportunity. Charles looked behind him to see Dutch tugging Arthur away, although he was trying to make it look kind. Charles could see Dutch’s nails digging into Arthur’s neck.

“Action’s this way, boy.” Colm said through a fake smile. “Don’t worry about the loser.”

When the pictures ceased, the judges stepped into the ring, handing Charles his championship belt. It was intricately carved metal, with a brilliant shine on it. Charles had no idea where he would put it in his apartment, but that was an issue for later.

“Put it on!” Colm said, shoving Charles a little. Without another word, Charles looped the belt around him. The flashbulbs started again.

“Get used to that, Smith.” Colm smirked at the cameras.

\--

“What was _that_ back there, Arthur?” Dutch growled. “You really just rolled over for him.” They shoved past reporters and spectators, going back to the locker room.

“Dutch, I dunno what to tell you. He beat me fair and square.”

“‘Fair and square’ my ass. You weren’t in the ring that last round. Christ, I have to invoke your _father’s name_ to get you to fight like you should! Like you _used_ to.”

“Don’t you dare say I ain’t tried. You saw me fighting!”

Dutch scoffed, his voice echoing in the locker room. “Is that it? Don’t make me laugh.” There was a knock at the door. Dutch opened it slightly. Arthur couldn’t see who it was; all he could see was Dutch pocketing something in his inside pocket. “Starting tomorrow, we’re back in the gym so we can practice for next year--”

“What was that, Dutch?” Arthur motioned towards the door.

“Someone from management, nothing to worry about.” Dutch folded his arms.

“What did they give you?” 

“Don’t start attacking me because you did a pisspoor job at defending your title!”

Arthur thought about the people leaving the stands, how Dutch snuck away during a round where it looked like Charles had the upper hand. He laughed slightly, a little incredulously. “Did you bet against me, Dutch?”

Dutch didn’t budge in his stance, but Arthur knew from the smallest change of expression that he was right.

“How much did you make off of me?”

“It doesn’t goddamn matter--”

Arthur punched the locker next to him, denting it. “ _How much?!_ ”

“I can’t talk to you like this, son.” Dutch sighed, turning away from him and grabbing his coat.

As he watched Dutch bundle up, the truth that he was fighting rose in his chest. Before he could swallow it down, he said, “I ain’t fightin’ anymore.” He sounded tired in his admittance. 

Dutch stopped in his tracks.“...You don’t mean that.”

Arthur held a hard glare at Dutch. “I _do_.”

Dutch snorted. “You can’t just _quit._ ”

“I damn well _can_. I ain’t got a contract. Ain’t ever had one.” Arthur folded his arms, flexing the hand that hit the locker.

Dutch sized him up in that moment, all bruised and sweaty, maybe a little pale. Where was he going to go after this? He wasn’t worried. He looked smug as he said, “We’ll see how you are in a month when all your money runs out.” He walked out the door and slammed it shut. It echoed in Arthur’s chest.

\--

“Great fighting out there, Smith!” A reporter said to Charles as he and Colm were walking out of the arena. Charles wasn’t sure how many reporters talked to him or how many programs he signed. It was all very surreal to have everyone care about him all at once. “How does it feel to be the heavyweight champion?”

“It hasn’t hit me yet.” Charles smiled, answering truthfully. It was tough moving through the crowd.

“What’s the next step for you, Mr. Smith?”

Charles was silent for a moment, keeping in pace with the reporter. Would his entire life be different? Would he still be able to go to speakeasies around the city inconspicuously? Would he get endorsements? Interviews? He felt dizzy. “Getting some rest.”

The reporter laughed uncannily and thanked him for his time. Colm tried to wrangle the reporters away, answering questions _for_ Charles. He did his best to sneak off to the locker room.

It only took a couple more interviews and some signings before he made it through the door.

“Is there a lock--?” Charles muttered to himself before finding the barrel bolt. He slid it closed. The locker room was so _quiet_. His ears felt muffled from all the screams and blows to the side of the head. 

When he turned, he saw Arthur sitting in the corner of the room. His head was in his hands. 

“Arthur.” Charles said softly. “I thought you and Dutch would be out by now.”

Arthur ran his hands through his hair. He laughed slightly as he looked up at Charles. His face was bruised, dried blood in the corner of his mouth. “Oh, Dutch is gone.”

“But you’re still here.” Charles stated, which was a nice way of saying “ _why_ are you still here?”

“I uh--” Arthur cleared his throat. “I think I quit?”

“Quit what, boxing or having Dutch as a coach?”

He sniffled despite his eyes being dry. “I think maybe both?”

Charles raised his eyebrows, only to find that one brow was too swollen to raise much. “ _Oh._ ”

“Dutch don’t believe I did, so I’m prolly gonna have to tell him a couple more times.”

“You know how persuasive he can be.” Charles warned. 

“And don’t I know it.” Arthur stood, muscles sore. _Now_ he needed an ice bath.

“What happened?”

“He bet against me, Charles.” His eyes looked dark. “Maybe he always did that, but I’m just now finding out. I’m still processin’ it all.”

Charles deflated slightly. “Shit, Arthur--”

“I don’t mean to ruin your night.” He held up his hands, walking past him. Charles touched Arthur’s arm, stopping him. 

“You didn’t ruin my night. What are you going to do now?” Charles asked, while he was asking himself the same thing.

“Dunno. Get drunk, probably.”

“No, I mean...after all this.”

“Haven’t thought that far yet.” He sighed.

Charles considered it all. He watched Arthur step past him, gathering his things. He started to change back into his suit, tenderly pulling the clothes over his aching muscles. 

Charles unwrapped his hands, flexing his fingers. “What about this?” He gestured between him and Arthur, his bandaging flowing from his hand.

“That’s--I think I have that figured out.” Arthur buttoned up his dress shirt. “As much as I can have somethin’ like this figured out.”

“Care to enlighten me?” Charles asked playfully, seeing the slight smile on Arthur’s face. One part of his life that wasn’t falling to pieces.

“Well, I ain’t gonna say any grand declarations in this locker room, but...I’d like to keep seeing you.”

“You’re seeing me right now.” Charles stepped closer to him.

“Ya know what I--” Charles cut him off, pressing his lips against his.

Arthur made a surprised noise against his mouth. The kiss was slow, tentative, but better than the last kiss they shared. Arthur got a feeling in his chest from the kiss, like fireworks setting off. He never experienced that feeling with Mary. Even though they kissed a couple of times before, it still wasn’t _right_ . He was a little _preoccupied_ that night, more so than even tonight, but now he could enjoy the feeling of Charles kissing him, the unexpected softness of his hands as they caress the side of his face. It made his hair stand on end.

When they separated, they were both lighter. “If my face weren’t so damn swollen I would be smiling.”

Charles laughed. “Same here.”

“Colm probably doesn’t wanna see you with me.”

“Don’t mention him now.” Charles dipped his head, pressing against Arthur’s chest. His heart was beating fast.

As if on cue, there was a banging at the door. “Smith, get out here!”

“Word to the wise: it never stops.”

Charles wasn’t sure if Arthur meant Colm’s behavior or the attention. He squeezed Arthur’s hand before leaving the locker room. 

There was still a crowd of people waiting for him, reporters aplenty. They ushered him further down the hallway. “We got your winnings!” Colm said, holding out a check for Charles.

His eyes grew wide looking at the number. He never had seen a number that large on a check meant for _him_.

“How do ya feel to have a check with that much money?”

“I think it’s--” He heard a door slam. He looked behind him to see that Arthur was sneaking out for the night. No one else seemed to notice him leave. He turned back around to see a crowd of people, bright lights flashing. And Colm. It was certainly a mixed feeling.

A thought came to him. It almost seemed impulsive at first. He looked over at Colm. Colm, with his stringy hair and grey teeth. Colm, who ruled his life with an iron fist since he signed the contract. He cleared his throat, looking at the microphones out in front of him. No better time to try it. “I think it’s enough to get out of my contract.”

Colm’s face fell. “What?”

He felt emboldened that he read (and remembered) the contract correctly, that there was an exorbitant fee in order to get out. A number that more than surpassed the fee. Maybe, if he involved the mysterious higher ups of management, he could have the leftover cash. He faced the crowd. “A reporter asked me a little earlier what I was going to do after this. I think I have a good answer for him.” He handed the check back to Colm.

The photographers lit up the room with the camera flashes. The reporters moved in closer. Colm was trying to push them back. He shouted racial epithets to Charles, phrases and words he’d heard unfortunately many of times in his life. If only that was enough to sever the contract. Surely the reporters heard him as well?

Colm was shouting, trying his damnedest to wrangle the attention back over to him, like he always wanted. _He and Dutch deserve each other,_ Charles thought. 

Charles started to walk back to the lockers. The crowd followed, leaving Colm behind while shouting and shoving. “Mr. Smith!” A reporter called out, “If this stunt goes through with your managers, who will you have as a coach?”

Charles smiled as much as his beaten face could allow. “I might have someone in mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> on one hand, contracts are a bear to get out of, but on the other hand Colm probably wrote the contract himself, so......


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well...here it is! the last chapter! thank you all for joining me on this journey and leaving such sweet and encouraging comments. it's really been a treat to write this story, and i'm so thankful to have such a wonderful audience.
> 
> enjoy <3

_A few weeks later..._

There were three distinct raps on Charles’ door. He maneuvered around the piles of boxes in his room, what few things he had packed up for a nicer and _larger_ apartment. One that didn’t cook him with the too-hot radiator or the thinner than paper walls. Charles almost felt sad for the next tenant. Not only will they have a less than ideal apartment, but they’ll have _Roy_ as a neighbor. 

He opened the door to find Arthur there, looking well-rested. Things had been tough for him following the match, and he was just slowly crawling out of the wreckage. Dutch hounded him after realizing Arthur’s decision was serious. He even had to change the locks on his doors. Eventually, he wrote a thoughtful letter thanking Dutch for everything, but ended it in saying he needed to be his own person. Dutch hadn’t responded or called yet, but Arthur knew it wouldn’t be long until he tried another tactic. 

As for Charles, things were surprisingly smooth. He hired a good (if slightly pricey) lawyer to look over the one sheet of paper that was his contract, as well as a representative from his management. Colm’s contract had more holes in it than swiss cheese, and Charles managed to slip out of his grip unscathed. He even got to keep a good portion of his winnings. If anything, the stunt made him _more_ famous. A newcomer that won the heavyweight title _and_ bailed out of his 50-50 contract? It certainly made for salacious headlines the next few days. 

Charles hadn’t asked Arthur to be his coach yet. He figured he needed to wait for the dust to settle. He felt an unease in his chest when it crossed his mind. He wasn’t even asking Arthur to _go steady_ or move in together.

Arthur unbuttoned his coat. “Evening, Charles.” 

Charles stepped aside, letting him in. “Evening.”

Arthur kissed him on the cheek. Every little kiss felt like it was for the first time. Neither of them could get over it. He kissed Charles on the lips, a quick kiss. “I swear, I’m becomin’ friends with your doorman.”

“I don’t _have_ a doorman.”

“Well, whoever likes to hang out around there. I’m starting to recognize the people around here.”

“Won’t be for long.” Charles took Arthur’s coat and slung it on the back of the couch. “I’m moving next week.”

Arthur looked around at all the boxes. “Really? I couldn’t tell.” 

Charles scoffed. “You’ll be able to help me, right?”

“Sure.” He always had a funny way of saying that word. Like _shore_. “I might be able to rope John into it, although I dunno if he’ll be able to help with the real heavy stuff.”

Charles shrugged. “The more the merrier.”

Arthur snapped his fingers, digging through the breast pocket on his coat. “Speakin’ of John.” He pulled out a rolled up paper bag. “Since we didn’t get to do it before the match.”

He laughed. “Let’s see if this reefer actually works.” Charles sat across from Arthur on the couch. It looked like he planned ahead, pulling out an already-rolled joint from the bag. Arthur patted down his chest, looking for a light. Charles pulled out his father’s lighter, handing it to Arthur.

Arthur made a curious noise, joint pressed between his lips. He lit the end of it, taking a big inhale. “Thought you didn’t let anyone touch your dad’s lighter.” He said, exhaling. 

Charles took the lighter back from him, their fingers touching as he did. “You’re the exception.” He laughed, holding out his hand for the joint. 

“Must be getting pretty serious,” Arthur smirked as he passed Charles the joint.

Charles shrugged, taking a small hit. It’s been a long time since he smoked, maybe over a decade ago. It was hard to say. The smoke was caustic in his lungs. He tried to hold it for as long as he could, finally exhaling in a fit of coughs. 

“Shit, I shoulda told you to be careful.” Arthur said, going out to the kitchen. He opened and slammed cupboards frantically. “Where are your cups?!”

Charles, still coughing, pointed to one of the boxes on the kitchen counter. Arthur fished out a glass and filled it with tap water, hustling back over to the couch. They traded the joint and the glass. Charles took a drink. He cleared his throat.

“You okay?” Arthur asked, joint burning down in his hand. 

“Yeah.” Charles said hoarsely. “I am.”

“I’m sorry, I should have warned you.” Arthur took another hit. “You wanna try again?”

Charles took another hit. It was much easier the second time. 

They passed the joint back and forth until just a roach was left. Arthur stubbed it out in the ashtray. “Feel good?”

Charles nodded slowly, looking contemplative. Arthur couldn’t tell if Charles was feeling anything or if he was just his usual self.

“Come here.” Charles patted next to him on the couch. Arthur snuck down to Charles’ side, slinging an arm around him. “This is nice.” He said contentedly.

“I can’t tell if you’re any different than normal.”

Charles laughed lightly. “Neither can I.”

Arthur laughed, kissing his neck. “Been a long time since I smoked with anyone.”

“Hope I’m not disappointing you.” Charles kissed him back.  
  
“Like you could ever do somethin’ like that.” Arthur kissed him deeply. Their hands got tangled with each other, until they were sprawled out on the couch. They slowly lost articles of clothing as they kissed, which probably looked much more clumsy than it felt. Things just felt _nice_ right now, resting on Charles’ couch, kissing each other with abandon. His vision was blurred at the edges, a rosy view of Arthur, of a man he was so fond of.

Trying to scoot up, his legs dug into the edge of the couch. His foot slipped, knocking the end table, causing the ashtray to crash onto the floor. They both stopped, looking over at the unbroken ashtray on the floor. “Don’t worry about it.” Charles said, pushing back into a kiss.

There was a knock at the door. It was more than a knock, more like a pound. A battering ram in their ears.

Charles buried his head in Arthur’s shoulder. “My neighbor.” He tried to wriggle out from under him. “Let me talk to him.”

“No, I will.” Arthur stood, adjusting himself. He slung on his shirt. “You ever meet this prick?”

Charles shook his head. “I’ve gotten plenty of knocks on my door about him.”

Arthur swung the door open to find Roy from apartment #17 looking back at him. He was a slight man, with horn-rimmed glasses and a combover.

“Can I help you?” Arthur said, trying to act like his eyes weren’t bloodshot and that he wasn’t still hard from fooling around with Charles.

The man stuttered for a second, not expecting to see a large man on the other side of the door. Nevertheless, he started. “Do you and your _friend_ have to make so much noise? It’s one thing to smoke reefer in this apartment building, but it’s--”

“Listen here, uh--”

“Roy!” Charles said, trying to stay out of view.

“Listen here _Roy_ . I dunno what gave you the authority on _noises_ , but you can’t tell us what to do.”

Roy furrowed his brow. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“An’ neither do you.” 

“Y-you’re lucky I’m not calling the cops.”

“And _you’re_ lucky I’m not wringing your pencilneck, Roy!” Arthur snarled. Roy staggered back. “You best get out of here before I change my mind.”

Roy stuttered to speak.

“Get moving!” Arthur started at him. Roy stumbled away. Arthur slammed the door.

“I could have done that.” Charles scoffed. 

Arthur laughed. “You look even more high than I do.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Believe it.” Arthur looked over at the bed. He sat down, taking off his shirt again. 

Charles got up, his legs feeling like jelly. It was almost like he was floating to the bed. It felt so comfortable as he laid back down next to Arthur. They didn’t say anything as they picked up where they left off. They didn’t go too far, leaving Arthur to go at the pace he wanted. Whatever was enough for him, Charles was fine with as well. Especially in this altered state.

“Was that good for you?” Arthur asked, kissing softly at Charles’ neck. 

He smiled warmly, tilting his head slightly to press his lips against Arthur’s. 

“Mm--” Arthur pulled away. “Lemme get a rag.”

“Good luck finding one.”

Arthur struggled to find anything but some tissues. It was good enough. He wiped down Charles’ stomach, looking bashful.

“Too much for you?”

“Nah, you came the normal amount--least I think you did.”

Charles laughed, his laughter carrying on more than usual. “No, I mean was _this_ too much for you?”

“Oh, heh--” Arthur balled up the spent tissues, going to toss them in the trash. “Not at all.”

“Good to know.” Charles put his hands behind his head. He was starting to sober up again, but he still felt a lightness and a blurriness in his thoughts. 

It wasn’t until later, as they were eating greasy egg sandwiches from the bodega down the street, that he remembered why he invited Arthur over.

“I have to ask you something.” He said seriously. 

He tried not to notice the look Arthur got in his eye with the change of tone.  
  
“Okay, go on then.” Arthur set down his half-eaten sandwich. “M’all ears.”

Charles took a sip of water before he started. “So--Colm isn’t my coach anymore.”

“Yeah, I know.” Arthur drank some of his soda. “You got anyone in mind for a replacement?”

“That’s...what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Well I certainly have a list of coaches ‘round the area that you could…” He trailed off, seeing Charles giving him a look of incredulity. “What, you askin’ me to be your coach?”

“I don’t know anyone better.”

Arthur blushed, tilting his head down again. “Well, I--I...that’s very kind of you to say.”

Charles swallowed. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“It’s a--ah hell. Sure.” He flashed Charles a smile. “I can make the contract real easy to get out of if I’m no good.”

Charles smiled back at him. “I doubt that.”

“You won’t get sick of me?” Arthur asked, a little bit of fear in his voice. 

Charles shrugged. “Can’t imagine I will.”

Arthur picked up his sandwich again. “You’re too damn sweet, you know that?”

He could only smile back as a response. The pounding in his ears subsided.

“Y’know,” Arthur started to say, his mouth full of food. “Next week is New Years.”

Charles looked at the calendar. The one thing still hung up in his kitchen. “Huh. So it is.”

Arthur washed down his bite with some soda. “You uh...you got any plans?”

“Are you asking me on a date?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Arthur laughed, then his smile faded. “Unless you _do_ have plans.”

Charles shook his head. “I’m free.”

“Been hearing rumblings of a bar for people like...well, people that are--”

Charles cocked a brow. “Like us?”

“Yeah. Like us.”

Charles looked out the window, transfixed by the twinkling lights of the city. He couldn’t imagine going somewhere where he didn’t have to hide that part of himself. Not use strange hand signals or awkward phrases and codes. A place where he and Arthur could just... _be_.

“It’s a date.” He finally said with a smile.

\--

The two of them were slightly lost for the bar. Charles thought the directions couldn’t get more convoluted than this. Arthur unfolded the directions to the nightclub. He squinted at the map. “I can’t make heads or tails of these directions--”

“Let me see.” Charles took the page from Arthur. “Your handwriting is nice.”

“Shit, that chicken scratch? I’m surprised you can read it.”

“I can read _most_ of it.” Charles pointed to his right. “It says we go this way for a block.” As they walked, he passed the page back over to Arthur. “Where did you find these directions?”

Arthur laughed. “The janitor at my old gym was a little--well, I got a feeling from him.”

“A _feeling_?”

“Nothin’ weird, he was just an old gentleman that had a _flair_ about him.”

Charles laughed. “What, did you call him up and ask for directions?”

“Well...yeah.”

“Unbelievable.” He shook his head, tugging down his hat some more. It was starting to snow again. “Let’s hope it’s coming up soon.”

After a series of intricate instructions, they made their way into _The Lavender Club_. There was a decent amount of people in the club, despite it being a small venue. There was even a coat room. They shed themselves of their winter coats, finding their way to the bar. Arthur tried not to stare with his mouth open. Men with men! Women with women! It gave him a headrush at it all. 

As they waited for their drinks, Arthur looked at the stage. There was a small band and a singer. He squinted, nudging Charles. “Is the singer a feller? I can’t tell.”   
  
“You mean Pocketta Posies?” The man beside them asked. “Not when she’s on stage.”

“What do ya mean?” Arthur asked, sitting next to the man.  
  
“It’s _drag_.” He seemed tired to even explain it. “Cross dressing. Wearin’ makeup and all that.”

“Huh.” Arthur looked back at the stage. Pocketta had a beautiful voice, and she certainly did cut a figure in her form-fitting dress. He shrugged, turning back to Charles.  
  
“You’ll be learning a lot tonight.” Charles got their drinks from the bar. 

“Think we both will.” Arthur smiled, sipping at his drink. It was only 10 pm, so he figured he should pace himself. 

They leaned against the bar, taking conservative sips out of their drinks. It was hard not to watch people. Not that they were particularly odd or interesting, but rather the _openness_ with which they carried themselves was something to behold. There were no barriers between how the couples were _supposed_ to act and how they weren’t. Charles’ heart grew warm at the amount of hand-holding, the hugs, and the _kisses_ that were going on between the couples. Never could he have pictured being in an environment like this. And yet he was here with someone he deeply cared about. Strange how things worked.

They both finished their drinks. Arthur moved closer to Charles. “You uh--you wanna dance?”

“You didn’t have to whisper it to me.” Charles laughed. “And of course I do.”

They held hands (held _hands_ ) to the dance floor. A more jazzy number was starting. “Do I lead or do you?” 

Charles shrugged. “I dunno. I haven’t had to think about this.”

“We can switch off.” Arthur put a hand around Charles’ waist. “But lemme know.”

“It’s just _dancing_.” Charles laughed, putting a reassuring hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

Their movements were clumsy at first, both of them used to leading, but after a few songs, they got the hang of it. Arthur didn’t spin Charles much as he did with Mary-Beth, not that Charles would have minded.

“I have one more song to sing!” Pocketta Posies said in a deep voice. The crowd whined and booed. “I know, I know! But I need to rest my delicate throat _sometime_.”

“Cause it sure won’t be later!” Someone in the crowd quipped. They were met with applause. Arthur and Charles were both taken aback at the comment, but then broke out into laughter with everyone else.

“Damn right!” She laughed. She turned to the band behind her, counting off the next number. It was a slow crooning ballad, one to make the couples swoon in their partners arms.

Arthur seemed nervous, slow dancing with Charles like this. He kept looking at the floor.

“Everything okay?” Charles asked, leaning in towards Arthur.

“Yeah, yeah, s’just--” He cleared his throat. “I never thought I’d be doing this. With you or, well, any man.”

“I know how that is.” Charles said soothingly. “It’s okay.”

Arthur bit his lip. He tried not to think of his dad. “I know.”

Charles brushed his thumb across the scar on Arthur’s chin. “It’s all right.”

Arthur held Charles closer. They moved slowly, their dancing barely qualifying as such, until the song ended. As the band finished the song, they hugged tightly before looking up at the stage.

“Thank you! I’m Pocketta Posies! Happy New Year!” She blew a kiss to the audience. The crowd cheered and whistled as she slinked off the stage. From behind the curtain was the emcee. He jaunted to the stage, a certain pep in his step. He was a lanky man, with curly auburn hair and freckles--

Charles felt as if he got suckerpunched. 

It was Isaiah. 

Isaiah must have seen Charles in the crowd. They stared at each other for a brief second before Isaiah snapped back into his emcee duties. 

Arthur must have noticed his shock. “You know that feller?”

“Yeah, uh…I’ll tell you later.”

“One more round of applause for Pocketta Posies!” He clapped toward backstage. “Ladies and gentlemen and the rest...we have less than an hour until the New Year!”

The crowd cheered and clapped, excited to count down already. 

“To keep y’all busy until then, our Lavender Band has some astounding songs to play you until we count down to 1926!” He counted off to the band, who started a different upbeat jazz number.

Isaiah hopped down from the stage, sneaking through the other dancing couples. “Charles Smith, as I live and breathe!” He gave him a hug. 

“Isaiah Johnson.” Charles greeted back. What a small world it was. “We should probably get off the dance floor before we get trampled.”

“Of _course_. It’s my club and I’m putting myself in danger.” The three of them got a table.

“I’m sorry, this is--”

“ _Pretty Boy_ Morgan, I don’t need introductions.” Isaiah laughed. “You two are acting as if you’re not celebrities ‘round the city.”

Both of them grew bashful.

“Hope no one here has been bothering you for autographs.”

“No, everyone’s been real kind.” Arthur laughed. “I’ll leave you two to catch up.” He gently patted Charles’ shoulder before making his way to the bar. 

“Heavyweight champion.” Isaiah said. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Even when I knew you, you were _tough_.”

“As if you weren’t?” He laughed.

“Not like you, not like-- _wow,_ I can’t believe you’re here!”

“When’d you move to the city?” 

Isaiah did the math. “About twelve years ago.”

“So you were young.”

“It was a hard go at it for a while, but things are--” He looked around his club. “Things are okay.”

He smiled back at Isaiah. “How’s your family?”

“Oh, ma and pa are doing well. Gettin’ older, so they had to downsize on the farm. I send them some money every once in a while.”

“How’s Mabel?”

“Oh, she’s a little firecracker. Wants to join this new dancin’ team called the Rockettes. They do a lot of kickin’ and the like.”

Charles noticed Isaiah’s more natural accent coming out as they talked. Like he was still the boy on the farm. He had to ask. “Do your parents--do they know?”

“Yeah, I had to tell ‘em twice to get the point across. They love me all the same.”

“Why’d you move?”

He shrugged. “I wanted to see what was out there. And I’m really glad I did.”

“I’m happy for you.” Charles smiled.

“And I you.” His eyes caught Arthur walking back to the table, two drinks in hand.

“Figured two fingers was enough.” 

“Plenty, thank you.” Charles took a sip.

The three of them made small talk until it was five to midnight. Isaiah checked his watch. “Shit, got to go and host. Come by anytime gentlemen, although the rest of the time we’re a dry club.”

“We’re here for the company, but thanks for the heads up.” Arthur toasted his drink to him. 

The two men watched Isaiah hustle to the stage.

“We should probably get back out on the dance floor.” Charles said, polishing off his drink.

“Yeah. You know, for once I’ll have someone to dance with for ‘Auld Lang Syne.’”

“For what?”

“The song that they play with every new year.” He shrugged. “It’s about old friends.”

“This will be my _first_ time to dance with someone for it, then.”

“One minute left!” Isaiah shouted. He pointed at the clock over his head. “Get ready!”

Charles intertwined his fingers with Arthur’s. “Wonder what 1926 will bring us.”

“Better only be good things.” Arthur chuckled.

“I think they will be.”

“Ten, nine, eight!” Isaiah shouted, the rest of the crowd joining in. 

Charles squeezed Arthur’s hand. Arthur squeezed back.

“Three, two, one-- _Happy New Year!_ ”

Balloons fell from the ceiling, and sure enough, the band started to play ‘Auld Lang Syne.’”

Arthur turned to Charles. “Happy New Year, babe.”

Charles smiled back. “Happy New Year.”

And Arthur kissed Charles. 

In front of everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (loudly ignores the 1929 stock market crash)


End file.
